


The Many Assassination Attempts of Hanzo Shimada

by staringatstars



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Amnesiac Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Animagus, Anti-Omnic Sentiment, Babysitting, Body Horror, Boggarts, Botched Robbery, Concussions, Cybernetic Ninja Hanzo, Cyborg!Hanzo, Developing Friendships, Dragon Hanzo, Feral Behavior, Fever, Genji Shimada is a saint, Ghost Drifting, Groundhog Day Loop, Gryffindor!Genji, Hallucinations, Hot Chocolate, Hustling, Hypothermia, Implied Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Intoxication, Irezumi, Junkers - Freeform, Karaoke, Loss of Limbs, Minor Character Death, Near Drowning, Omnic Racism, Origami, Personality Swap, Platonic Human/Omnic Relationships, Poisoning, Post-Reflections, Prosthesis, Protective Genji Shimada, Recovery, Results of experimentation, Role Reversal, Ronin Genji, Shapeshifting, Shared Dreams, Slytherin!Hanzo, Sniper Buddies, Sojiro Shimada's A+ Parenting, Trauma, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada, Young Hanzo Shimada, additional tags will be added after each update, oni hanzo, references to the Magnificent Seven remake, shameless Older!Hanzo and Young!Genji fluff, sibling angst, that comes later, the first drabble does not involve Hanzo nearly dying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 212,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Overwatch drabbles which all involve Hanzo suffering in some fashion.</p><p> </p><p>41) Beat after a successful mission, McCree and Hanzo find themselves lacking the funds and transportation needed for a comfortable return to their base of deployment. It's happens to the best, but never for long.</p><p>42) Marshal Reyes has some explaining to do. (The Rift extra)</p><p>43) It's easy enough to say fairytales aren't real until you're living in one. (Beauty & The Beast au) 1/3</p><p>44) It's time for the festival and the Shimada brothers are thrilled to get out of the castle long enough to finally enjoy themselves.</p><p>45) Continuation of the Beauty and the Beast au (2/3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mata Ashita

**Author's Note:**

> Mata ashita - See you tomorrow

Genji’s colleagues at Overwatch, many of whom he considered to be his friends, refused to tell him, despite his stubborn persistence and sometimes heated outbursts, where they were keeping his older brother. 

Though their intentions were good, he couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t their place to prevent him from seeing Hanzo. The most firm in their refusals was Mercy, who had witnessed first hand what the battle between the two brothers all those years ago had done to Genji, tearing him apart both mentally and physically in ways he would never fully recover from, and she was loathe to allow Hanzo the chance to somehow hurt him again, but whether or not Genji chose to forgive his brother enough to want him in his life was his decision to make. 

However, their cautiousness ultimately mattered little, as Genji did not need their help, not when Hanzo was so close. The twin dragons would always be drawn to each other. All Genji had to do was follow the pull. 

It was six months since Hanzo’s capture by Talon - a fate which befell him due to his own choice to remain behind to stall their assailants long enough for McCree to take the heavily damaged cyborg to safety - when Winston caught wind of a breach in a Talon base located on the outskirts of Hong Kong. They’d stormed the warehouse to find little to no resistance, as most of its occupants were already dead, the drying blood from their torn throats a viscous carpet of scarlet coating the concrete floors. 

Now, three days after Hanzo's successful retrieval and return to Overwatch, Genji was going to see him for the first time since his capture. 

It was cool in the room where they were holding him, and at the sight of his brother’s huddled form, small and shrunken in the corner, Genji nearly gave voice to a disgusted snarl. Was _this_ how Overwatch treated its allies? 

“My name…” Shocked out of his anger, Genji crept closer, careful to move in the shadows. “My name is…” Ending the sentence in a frustrated growl, Hanzo grabbed fists of his hair and yanked, hunching lower, curling into himself. 

Now that he was closer, Genji could see the spattering of azure scales creeping up his neck and jaw, the hardened plates overlapping over his hands, the wicked points of claws protruding from his nail beds, sharper than arrow heads and digging into his scalp. Dead skin peeled and flaked away from his shoulder blades, revealing more of the changes inflicted on him during his imprisonment.

“What have they done to you, brother?” The words came out mournful, unbidden, and Hanzo stiffened, suddenly and forcefully aware of his presence. He twisted towards the sound, snarling with a mouth full of fangs, and Genji stepped into the light, hands raised in a gesture of peace, wishing not for the first time that he could stand in front of his brother as the man he once was. If not welcome, then at least he would be familiar, something his brother could use to ground himself, to find the man he once was beneath the animal his enemies had, through some sort of torture and experimentation, brought roaring to the surface. 

“Your name is Hanzo,” Genji said softly, knowing his brother would hear. “We are brothers, you and I.” He hesitated at the lack of recognition crossing his brother’s transformed features, “Do you remember me?” He was vulnerable again, like a child. 

There was little he could do besides watch as Hanzo slowly uncurled his claws from his disheveled mane. In swift, reptilian movements, he swiveled his neck to meet Genji’s gaze, wide, unblinking eyes like pools of melted gold, with strips of ebony cutting through them. Around his jawline and chin, there were tufts of feathery fur. The hardened plating spread over his chest, pale blue and stronger than bone,seemed to meld with the tatters of his black yukata, while the skin on his forehead, nose, chin, and framing his draconic eyes was either scratched off or rubbed away. What drew Genji’s attention the most, though, was not the ruin of his brother’s appearance, but rather the spiraled horns protruding from his crown. They served no purpose, other than to lend his brother the appearance of a dragon, to lend to the irony of striving to turn a Shimada into the very source of their spirituality and power. “Was this nothing but a game to them?” Genji hissed under his breath, rage burning wildly inside him.

Hanzo flinched, a subtle change of expression barely noticeable in the poor lighting, but Genji immediately drew back, cooling his anger with several, calming breaths. Lowering himself closer to the ground with a single palm outstretched, Genji said, “Do not fear me, brother. I mean you no harm, nor shall any harm come to you so long as I am here.”

He doesn’t slip his hand through the bars, as he's rather partial to it, but feels a swell of triumph when Hanzo doesn’t recoil from the proximity, the flickers of recognition dulling the edges of his feral bearing. 

Slipping into their native tongue, Genji whispered, _“Mata ashita, nii-san.”_ As he snuck out, however, a low grunt from behind him reached his cybernetic ears, a sound very much like a gruff acknowledgement of his farewell. 

And as he effortlessly darted through the narrow halls of Watchpoint, sticking to the shadows, blending in with his surroundings, Genji allowed himself a quiet, secret celebration of this latest triumph, in the form of a concealed smile that long refused to fade.

 

The next day, there were a pair of guards posted in front of the cell, though all it took was a simple misdirection, a ball bouncing in the opposite hallway, for a crack in their vigil to form, one which Genji quickly and effortlessly took advantage of. 

This was a strategy which Genji took great pleasure in repeating, as every afternoon he utilized some variant of the same trick to sneak past their defenses and see his brother. 

Hanzo no longer snarled at him when he entered, nor did he flinch at his careful approach. Though it was difficult to tell if he regarded the cyborg coming to visit each day as more than just a tolerable annoyance, Genji felt a swell of relief that his brother now trusted him enough to not feel threatened by his presence.

Progress was slow, and on Hanzo’s worst days, when all of Genji’s best efforts to reach his brother seemed to disappear in the night, it was difficult to keep from feeling discouraged, but even though Hanzo sometimes refused to acknowledge his presence, he always seemed to listen to Genji’s stories, head tilted slightly to the side as the small, cold cell was warmed with tales of their childhood, of misadventures from happier, brighter times than this. 

There was no knowing if telling Hanzo of their past together was helping or making things worse, but as there was no way to learn of exactly what had been done to him during his time with Talon, Genji was persistent, determined to aid in his brother's healing despite the frustration that sometimes arose from receiving such minimal responses. 

Recovery took time. Acceptance was a journey. 

He had learned much of the rewards of patience and persistence over the years, and as such, refused to leave Hanzo’s side. “Come on, _nii-san_ ,” with smooth, unhurried movements, he unclipped his visor, uncovering his heavily scarred features, “Look at me.” It wasn’t a command, nor was it a request, but something in between, and to Genji’s surprise, Hanzo turned to face him, and upon taking in Genji’s scars, drew in a harsh breath, brow furrowed, his slitted pupils contracting as though his younger brother were too painfully bright, like staring into the swirling clouds of a newborn star. 

The doorknob jerked, startling both Shimadas, but when the latest visitor entered, Genji had already propelled himself to the ceiling, hands and legs braced against the walls to keep himself from falling and giving away his position. After carrying on the ruse of asking to see his brother each day, it would be rather embarrassing to be caught sneaking in visits like this. 

“Hey, darlin’” drawled McCree, who was not the man usually sent to deliver Hanzo's meals, which likely explained why it was so late. “So, I’ve got some grub for ya,” he lifted a raw steak in one hand and a plate of sushi in the other. Genji swallowed a noise of disgust as Hanzo looked contemplatively at both. “What I have for ya here is a raw slab of meat and a nice, dainty plate of sushi. Now, I know that meat looks mighty tempting but… Oh!” He was interrupted by the clawed hand extending through the bars, gesturing impatiently for the sushi as Hanzo fixed the cowboy with an unmistakable expression of irritation, and judging by the low whistle the cowboy uttered, the change in routine was both unexpected and a pleasant surprise. 

“Well, ain’t that something?” McCree grinned, speaking only after Hanzo had began spearing the fish and rice with his claws, “We’ll have to get you chopsticks or something for next time, now that your manners have improved.” At the potent glare McCree received, he raised his hands towards his chest, a bead of nervous sweat dripping down from his temple, “No offense meant, of course.”

With a huff that could almost be construed as amused, Hanzo continued to partake in his meal. Gradually, McCree relaxed, allowing his arms to fall at his sides. “Guess you’re not in the mood to try and eat me today?” 

After a moment of thought, Hanzo leaned towards the bars, sniffed the air close to the cowboy as though tempted, and then curled his lips in a look of pure disdain. McCree crossed his arms. “Darlin’, I don’t know if I should be relieved or insulted.” 

If Genji didn’t know better, he’d have sworn Hanzo had just made a joke. 

Once Hanzo was finished, he pushed the plate beneath the bars, back to McCree, who obligingly picked it up, tipped his hat, and made as though to leave. Instead, he hovered in front of the door, sighed, then said over his shoulder, “It’s good that you’re starting to get better, Hanzo. Great, even. You see, there’s someone who’s been dying to see you, but we’ve been mighty worried you’ll bite his head off if we let him, which would be bad for everyone all around, so we’re starting with baby steps. Like getting you to eat like a man again.” Hanzo, for his part, was staring hard at the cowboy, and maybe it was a trick of the light, or even just wishful thinking, but Genji could have sworn he saw him nod.

Opening the door, McCree tapped his chin, adding almost to himself, “Maybe it’s about time we finally let Genji come and see you. It’d do you both some good, I bet.”

Hanzo watched him go, his steely gaze lingering on the door even after Genji dropped down from the ceiling, landing with his knees and elbows bent in a crouch. 

Soon, Genji found himself suppressing a chuckle at the aggrieved air with which his older brother finally regarded him, as he could nearly hear the message written so plainly in Hanzo’s expression, _The cowboy is a fool._

“Perhaps.” Genji conceded, replying in hushed, amused tones to the unspoken complaint. “He is also a good man.”

With a grumpy huff, Hanzo shifted, turning his attention elsewhere, to the narrow furrows he’d scratched out of the concrete floor during the first few days of his ‘adjustment period.’

As Genji watched, his jaw stretched in a long yawn, revealing all of his glittering teeth, and when it was done, his eyes flicked meaningfully towards the door. 

Clipping on his visor, Genji hid a smile. “Alright, _nii-san_. I got the message. You can get some rest. We’ve made a lot of progress today.” He gave a jaunty wave on his way out, already wondering how he was going to disguise the new skip in his step when he was _supposed_ to be reaching the breaking point from not seeing his brother in a week. 

Oh, well. If all he had to do to keep up the charade was act grumpy and surly, then he’d just try to imagine how Hanzo would behave in any given situation and work with that. 

A lengthy rumble drifted from the cell, too casual to be considered a growl, too slurred to hold any discernable meaning. Pausing at the door with one hand on the threshold, Genji glanced over his shoulder to see Hanzo clenching his hands into fists, tongue darting out between his fangs in palpable frustration. “Patience, _nii-san_. It will come. We will try again when I return tomorrow. _Mata ashita._ ”

It wasn’t until Genji was well on his way back to his quarters that it struck how similar his brother’s incoherent utterance had sounded to his own farewell.

 

There was an information-gathering mission the next day, one which required his own expertise in the art of surveillance and stealth, and since he wasn’t yet cleared to visit his brother, a topic which he made certain to bring up by the hour, there was no getting around it. Genji completed the mission as quickly as he could without threatening its chances of success, fearful that too much time apart would erase many of the steps Hanzo had taken towards recovery. 

The road to healing was slippery and steep, a fact which Genji knew from experience. Without someone to guide him up it, it would be only too easy for Hanzo to lose his step and fall. 

However, it would seem his fears were unfounded, as Hanzo merely regarded him with a mildly sullen expression the next day, clearly upset, but still cognizant enough to sit with perfect posture, back straight as the hilt of a blade. “There was a mission,” Genji rushed to explain. “I came as soon as I could.”

Time passed. Genji held his breath, anticipating his brother’s reaction, but Hanzo merely huffed, seemingly accepting the reason for Genji’s absence, and Genji’s synthetic muscles loosened at the sight, finally relaxing. A quiet chuckle escaped him before he could think better of it. He looked up to see Hanzo staring at him, perplexed, with one brow raised in silent question. “Sorry.” Genji shrugged with easy nonchalance, as though they were simply having a chat in the dojo, back before their father passed away, and every remnant of their innocence crumbled into dust. “Even with circumstances as they are, being here with you makes me feel like a kid again.”

At the admission, Hanzo’s searching gaze fell squarely on his green visor, seeing past it, before he pointedly looked away. 

Genji settled comfortably into a lotus position, having prepared a special tale for this visit to make up for his absence the day before. “Do you remember when you were learning how to conceal your presence in the trees?” Hanzo showed no sign that he did, but that was expected. “The elders wanted to accelerate your teaching, so they moved you up to traveling unseen in the branches. I was jealous. You got good so quickly, it felt like I was being left behind, so I snuck away from my tutors and climbed to the highest branch of a _sakura_ in the courtyard,” Hanzo’s sharpened ears twitched at this point. Genji most certainly had his attention, “and leapt to the next branch over, intending to master the practice on my own.”

“I, of course, failed miserably. Bumped my head rather badly on the trunk, cried a little, and never told a soul.” Genji shook his head, rocking gently. “It was too embarrassing.”

Not even trying to hide his interest now, Hanzo regarded Genji steadily, his golden eyes glittering with intelligence. “Now, I suppose, it’s easy to see that all I really wanted was to be more like you.” It was tiring to speak of the past with such openness. Tiring and uncomfortable, like prodding an old wound. He waited for a response of some sort, a sign that Hanzo had understood, and upon receiving none, slumped dejectedly against the wall behind him. 

“That was a long time ago, Genji,” came a tired voice, raspy and guttural from disuse.

More than a little shocked, Genji leapt to his feet. “You can speak, brother? Since when?” The questions came rapidly, tinged with unease, suspicion, and doubt. 

Hanzo’s mouth twisted into a rueful smirk. “Not so long as you think.” He gestured for Genji to sit. “The very knowledge of my name has been forcibly intertwined with recollections of our battle. Every time I remember, I relive that day. It is… easier to become a beast.”

Moved, Genji reached for him, unafraid of his claws or his scales or his fangs. Through the bars, he saw his brother. And that was all that mattered. Hanzo jerked, yanking his hand away from Genji’s touch, unaware of the hurt crossing his brother’s face beneath his helmet as he continued in an agonized whisper, “Don’t. I will forget you again. I can’t… stop it.”

“Then I will remind you,” Genji insisted, relieved and bolstered by the knowledge that his brother was not once more rejecting him. “As much as it takes. We may thrive in darkness, brother, but it is not our home.” Gesturing to the concrete floor and walls, he added, “You deserve so much more than this.”

He would talk to the others, convince them that Hanzo was sane, that he remained an ally of Overwatch. Though his appearance may have changed drastically from his ordeal, there still beat the heart of a warrior in his breast. 

Dragons did not belong in cages.

“Genji?”

He looked up to meet his brother’s unwavering gaze, “Hm?”

Hanzo licked his lips, jaw working as though forming words. At first, all Genji could hear was a hiss, causing him to worry, but then the sibilant sounds coalesced, becoming sharper, separating into distinct syllables. _“Mata ashita.”_


	2. lightning never strikes twice - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When confronted with a child that introduces himself as Genji Shimada and bears his appearance, Hanzo doesn't know what to think. Neither does Genji.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ossan - a middle-aged man (very casual)
> 
> ne, isha ga irimasu ka? - hey, do you need a doctor?
> 
> kumicho - the yakuza boss

Hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, Hanzo strode through the sterile hallways of Watchpoint with a simmering ferocity, the calm in the midst of a hurricane. New recruits slipped quietly behind closed doors upon his approach, having taken his expression into consideration and subsequently decided that snagging an early morning coffee wasn’t worth the near death experience of crossing paths with the enraged archer. 

This did not bother Hanzo in the slightest. He hadn’t joined Overwatch to make friends, after all. It was right that they fear him. 

It was that inflexible way of thinking, however, that had led his current predicament.

This wasn’t the first time Morrison had requested that he train with the rest of Overwatch after a missed training session. 

Nor the second. 

Nor even the fifth. 

The man had given Hanzo many chances to join the group practice sessions, yet Hanzo had never once believed that the man would truly follow through on his threats and temporarily suspend his identification badge from the facility’s database, thus preventing him from entering, with the only exception being when a joint training practice was already in session. 

It was due to the singleminded force of Hanzo’s ire consuming his senses that the blur of orange fabric whipping around the corner registered too late for him to avoid the oncoming impact. Instinctively, his hands shot out to immobilize the object or assailant careening towards his torso, locking onto small, thin shoulders, as well as the young ninja they were attached to. 

Exhaling sharply due to the shock of the sudden stop, the boy raised his chin to stare up at Hanzo, who recognized the roundness to his cheeks, the thick tufts of unruly brown hair, and the youthful, ever curious glint in his eyes, as though each new, impossible confirmation of the child’s identity were a dagger digging through his chest, reaching for the soft, vulnerable tissue of his beating heart. 

At first, the boy’s expression was challenging, defiant, as though he'd been caught where he was not meant to be, and knew it, but as the silence continued without interruption, it slowly shifted to concern. He shifted uncomfortably under Hanzo’s grip, subtly checking to see if it had loosened at all. It hadn’t. 

Finally, the boy mustered up the courage to ask, “Are you okay, _ossan?_ ” 

Startled by the address, Hanzo abruptly released him, then took a wary step back, unaware of the harsh breaths bursting from his chest, and though it was the perfect opportunity for the boy to escape, his conscious kept him rooted to the spot. It wasn’t in him to leave someone alone when they looked so scared, not even an old man who looked at him like he was seeing a ghost. “Do you, um, need me to get you a doctor?” When Hanzo didn’t reply, he frowned, curving the corners of his lips down into a rare shape. After a deep breath, he tried again, “ _Ne, ossan, isha ga irimasu ka?_ ”

A doctor? Yes, that was exactly what he needed.

Acting on a mix of impulse and what little composure he still possessed, Hanzo surged forward, shackled the boy’s wrist with an iron grip, then proceeded to drag him towards Dr. Ziegler’s nursing station, the issue of his access to the training facility the furthest thing from his mind. 

The boy squirmed, pawing uselessly at Hanzo’s thick forearm with loud protests, though Hanzo guessed that he must not have felt truly endangered, as the _shuriken_ he knew to be concealed within the flowing white sleeves of his yukata had thus far gone untouched. It was the most thought Hanzo could afford to spare the boy, as keeping the majority of his thoughts at bay was playing a major role in keeping his feet from buckling as the very earth seemed to shift treacherously beneath him. 

A quick glance into the doctor’s quarters revealed her sitting in a rolling armchair at her computer, dressed casually in a simple white frock and jeans, her pale blue eyes scanning a document with print too small to read from a distance as her blond tresses, still wavy from the lasting imprint of a ponytail, spilled over the keys without her notice. 

Whatever important matter she was working on, it would have to wait. 

Forgoing politeness, Hanzo barged in without knocking, roughly deposited the boy onto the closest cot, then subtly concealed his hands behind his back in an effort to conceal their feeble tremors. Ignoring the indignant scowl twisting the boy’s youthful features, Hanzo brusquely requested that the doctor keep a close watch on the child while he informed the Commander of their young intruder. 

With a meticulously manicured nail hovering over the cusp of her coffee, Angela fixed him with a look of startled bewilderment, her lips parted in a million silent questions that Hanzo neatly sidestepped by turning on his heel and exiting the room as quickly as possible.

 

Morrison, who’d been scanning the detailed map filling the entirety of Winston’s computer screen, appeared to be entirely unfazed by the sight of Hanzo ducking to enter the expansive room faster than the slow moving automatic door would allow, then crossing the floor to reach him in several long strides, forgoing the act of stepping down the stairs into the lower level where he and Winston resided by deftly leaping over them, landing less than a foot from the commander himself. 

Though Morrison tensed at the sudden proximity, Hanzo cared little for the man’s discomfort, and so spoke without openly acknowledging that the violence of his entrance might have unintentionally given a trained soldier such as the Commander, who’d clearly been expecting some sort of argument from the archer, the wrong idea. In truth, Hanzo had forgotten all about his previous ousting from the training facility. “Commander Morrison, there is something you must see.”

Running a paw through the coarse coat of dark fur sitting atop his head, Winston asked if the matter was truly urgent. 

“It cannot wait,” Hanzo insisted, already turning to leave. He felt rather than saw them shrug, before Winston nodded in the direction of the archer’s departing back and Morrison, suppressing an unprofessional sigh, moved to follow him out. 

They made quite the procession as they strode towards Dr. Ziegler’s clinic, an ex-yakuza and a soldier. It drew the attention of McCree, who joined in because he was bored, having had no active missions to complete in little over a week, and if Hanzo was deigning to interact with the rest of them, then it was safe to say that something big was going down. 

It only became apparent just how big, though, when a boy of roughly seven darted through the doctor’s doorway, obviously pleased to have escaped her. If the smirk crossing his face upon hearing Angela’s exasperated shout was anything to go by, then he was trouble with a capital T.

Hanzo stilled at the sight of him. Morrison glanced his way, concern regarding the archer’s strange behavior warring against his irritation at being dragged away from his planning for the likes of a child intruding on the base. Watchpoint was a lot of things from a military standpoint, but it wasn’t impenetrable, nor was it childproof. Still, that didn’t explain why the archer looked so spooked, clenching and unclenching his hands as though desperate to ground himself in the tangible, in the evidence presented by his own flesh and blood, the proof that he was alive. 

“Why did you call me here, Hanzo?” The archer started, as though he’d delved so deep within his own thoughts that the presence of the others had completely slipped his mind. Such things tended to happen when faced with a ghost. 

Offended by their apparent lack of acknowledgement, the boy loudly announced, “I am the son of the current _kumicho_ of the Shimada-gumi.” Foolish. Had he truly been in any danger, that information would have guaranteed that his assailants held him for ransom, and that was if they didn’t kill him for belonging to a rival clan. But then, listening to the warnings of the elders had never been his strong suit, had it?

Reaching into his sleeves for the _shuriken_ Hanzo had known would be hidden there, the boy snapped imperiously at the three grown men staring at him in disbelief, all reckless fire and youthful vigor, “What gives you the right to try and keep me here? Or to,” confusion clouded his brow as he struggled to remember which English word would be best suited to convey his ire, “manhandle me in such a manner?” 

The two men standing beside Hanzo threw questioning looks his way, though Hanzo ignored them. He was staring at his palms, wondering how he had ever managed to touch the boy before. Somehow, without thinking, he had grabbed the child and taken him to where he’d known he would be safe, but now that the urgency of the situation was over, he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. 

With her hair slightly disheveled, Angela appeared at the threshold, one arm propped on the molding as she paused to catch her breath. “That one’s quite the handful.” She glanced at Hanzo, attempting to gauge his emotional state, which could scientifically be described as imploding. “He’s been asking after you since you left. He told me his name was Genji.”

“Genji? This little rascal?” McCree laughed. “Did somebody leave ya in the dryer for too long, buddy?” The boy scrunched his nose, then stepped forward to stomp on the cowboy’s boot. McCree jumped back with a yelp, nursing his throbbing appendage with a wounded expression. 

Having observed the exchange, Angela placed a delicate hand over her mouth to conceal a smile. 

Morrison knelt to the boy’s level, then slowly placed his blaster on the floor. “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” He paused for a moment, allowing the boy to divine the meaning behind the idiom, and relax a little. “We just want to get you home," he continued in the same calming, deliberately slow pace, "so if there’s anything you can tell us about how you came to find yourself on our base, that’d be a big help.” After a long, scrutinizing silence, the boy reluctantly admitted that he wasn’t sure how he got there. 

The last thing he remembered was running through the courtyard in Shimada Castle, bored because his brother was stuck meeting with the elders again and there was no one else to play with, “ And then I bumped into that grumpy _ossan_ over there.” 

Morrison nodded, seriously. “Of course. I can guess what happened after that.” He clapped a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing that with me. Now, we’ll do what we can to get in contact with your family. Is there anything in particular you’d like to do while you wait?” The boy’s amber gaze, flecked with gold, darted to Hanzo, who suppressed a flinch, as though his attention alone held the impact of a powerful blow. Gesturing for Morrison to again come lower, the child cupped a hand around his ear, whispered something that went unheard by those present, with the exception of Morrison, who visibly turned the information over in his head, then gave the solemn promise that he would not tell a soul of what had been spoken in confidence. 

With a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his features, the boy stepped back inside Angela’s clinic, his job done. 

“Hanzo, can I speak to you in private?” Hanzo snapped his attention to Morrison, suddenly dreading whatever conversation was about to ensue. McCree made as though to follow as Morrison stepped further into the hall, away from any nosy ears that may have been perked, but the soldier quickly put that idea to rest. “This does not include you, McCree.”

Sulking, McCree returned to the clinic.

When they were alone, Morrison cut right to the chase. “I need someone to keep an eye on the boy. We know who he thinks he is but, far as I know, we already have a Genji Shimada running around somewhere under this roof, and we can’t afford to overlook the possibility that this is a trap.” Hanzo did not need any further explanation to know what was going to be asked of him. Slowly, his limbs began to harden, turning to stone. “Can you tell me you’re up to the task?”

Determined to snap a denial, Hanzo forced his mouth to open, ordered his tongue to move, but to the surprise of both of them, what passed his lips was instead a quiet assent. “If you ask it of me, I will look after the boy,” he heard the words as though someone else were speaking them. Furious, he pondered just what it was he was hoping to gain by torturing himself so. 

As he had done with the boy, Morrison clapped a hand on his shoulder, the hard lines creasing his forehead softening a degree. “You’re gonna do fine, Hanzo.” The expression on the archer’s face must have betrayed his doubt on that matter, since he quickly added, “It’s only until Angela can run a few diagnostics, and he likes you,” the Commander grunted as he released Hanzo’s shoulder in an attempt to belie the levity seeping into his words when he added whilst turning in the direction of the clinic, “though I can’t imagine why.”


	3. lightning never strikes twice - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sugoi - amazing!
> 
> otou-san - father
> 
> hen na yatsu - what a weird guy

“You sure, hoss?” McCree asked Hanzo with uncharacteristic seriousness after Morrison filled him in on the boy’s temporary living arrangements. “No offense, but you ain’t exactly got the best track record with these things.”

Were they not standing so close to the threshold of Dr. Ziegler’s working space, well within earshot of the boy, he would have shortly found himself with the sharp edge of an arrow pressed against his jugular. 

In a brief slip of self-restraint, Hanzo allowed a small portion of his bottomless ire to come bubbling the surface as he stepped closer to the cowboy, snarling, “Do you truly believe me so eager to repeat the mistakes of my past?” 

McCree studied him, fingers twitching spasmodically by his thigh as though yearning for a cigar. “If you regret it so much, you shouldn’t a’ done it in the first place.”

“You understand _nothing!_ ” There was a fire sparking to life at the tip of Hanzo’s tongue, however, the urge to give into it was nowhere near as tempting as the urge to bash his fist repeatedly against this infuriating man’s thick skull. 

“McCree!” Morrison warned. “Back. Off.”

There was a gentle tugging on Hanzo’s quiver. He looked over his shoulder, surprised to find the boy staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes, worry pinching his brow. “I’d like to go now.”

Shame rushed through him, replacing the air in his lungs, replacing the blood in his veins. It was a cold, unpleasant sensation, one which Hanzo accepted, as it was well deserved. He could sense Dr. Ziegler regarding the both of them with heavy disapproval. Privately, he marveled at how quickly he’d managed to make a mess of this most recent assignment. “Okay.” 

Though the boy could not have known where he was going, he pointedly refused Hanzo’s offer to guide him, instead choosing to dart ahead into an unfamiliar location without any previous knowledge, while Hanzo trailed sullenly behind. 

As they departed, McCree whistled in quiet sympathy, a peace offering. “That tyke’s a handful if I’ve ever seen one.”

Slowly, Hanzo nodded, accepting the unspoken apology, though he made sure to keep the bouncing dark head of hair and bright, swaying orange from ever leaving his sight. 

It was only by a miracle that Genji had ever made it to adulthood the first time. How slim were the chances of him growing up twice?

In the distance, there was a startled shout, followed by short burst of unrestrained laughter. 

Pushing his thoughts aside with the proficiency granted to him by over a decade of practice, Hanzo resumed his stride. 

There would be time to deliberate over his future later. For now, ensuring that the boy lived long enough to see the next day’s sunset was his sole priority.

 

 _“Sugoi!”_

Upon catching up to the boy, his bow untouched but still a solid, comforting weight on his back, Hanzo was bemused to find him fussing over Overwatch’s resident leading scientist.

Winston himself appeared more than a little confused by the young child poking his limbs in delight, but suffered the attention with the calm, welcoming air of one who did not much mind the presence of children, nor fault them for their curiosity. “And what is your name, young man?”

The boy beamed, “It’s Genji!” Surprised, Winston raised an inquiring brow. He tried to make eye contact with the archer, hoping that he would provide some answers, but found the man rather slippery in that regard, unless the wall, ceiling, and ground were truly as profoundly interesting as he was making them out to be. “Are you really a gorilla?”

“I am a scientist,” Winston corrected him, gently.

“But you’re a gorilla, too, right?”

With a hint of a smile curling his lips, Winston flicked the boy’s forehead protector, sending the young ninja’s hands flying to his head, “Yes. I suppose I am that, as well.”

 

After a short time, Winston politely excused himself, as there was much to be done still, enough that even a short coffee break could leave him drowning in encrypted files and paperwork, whereafter the boy allowed himself to be guided to Hanzo’s quarters. 

Upon entering, he promptly leapt on the bed. “Thanks, _ossan!_ ” He chirped as he rolled around, wrinkling and creasing the expertly folded, flattened sheets with the destructive force of a localized tornado. 

“You should not call me that,” Hanzo muttered. When the boy paused in his play to glance down at him questioningly, he elaborated, “I’m not old enough.” He frowned, stroking his beard. “Or rather, I suppose I am.” When did that happen?

“Yeah, you look a lot like my father.” It was said so naturally that Hanzo almost missed it, the admission casual, simple talk, not meant to devastate, to rip and tear and rend. The boy was lying down now, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, his spiky hair mussed by the pillow supporting his head, so Hanzo slipped off his quiver, laying it down well within arm’s reach, though he did not expect to be putting it to use in the near future, and pulled up a chair. This certainly explained why the boy seemed to gravitate towards him, despite the rockiness of their first encounter. “It hasn’t been that long since I’ve seen him.” A tinge of distress clouded his brow, “At least, I don’t think it has.” Then he laughed, brightening with the light of the sun peeking out to warm the morning. “I bet _nii-san’s_ bored out of his mind with just the elders to keep him company.” Propping himself up on an elbow, he cupped a hand around his mouth, then whispered conspiratorially, “Sometimes, I think they’re trying to turn him into a robot.”

It wasn’t too far from the truth. They’d spent hours upon hours drilling into his younger self how important it was to behave in a manner befitting of the proud Shimada clan, to value all else below the clan's welfare. Though not a robot, he had truly been made a puppet, and if his own Genji proved to be as astute as the child currently regarding his continued silence with his own brand of boundless inquisitiveness, as well as the growing stain of anxiety, then his brother had known, in his own innocent way, that Hanzo's increasing devotion to the clan was not granting him the strength to lead, but destroying him in inches. 

When next he looked at the boy, it seemed some time had passed, as he had returned to staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest, his yukata rumpled and excessively large scarf gathered about him in clementine pools.

“You are pouting.” Hanzo realized, breaking the silence.

The boy huffed. “Am not.”

“You are. I can tell. What is it that troubles you?”

When they were boys, Genji could never bottle up his emotions for long, nor was he capable of keeping a secret. His mouth had landed Hanzo into trouble more than once, so when the boy paused, his lips pursed as though tasting the bitter peel of a lemon, Hanzo knew it was only a matter of time before the dam broke, so he relaxed back into his chair, and waited.

Sure enough, the boy blurted, “What did you talk about with the other grown-ups while I was sitting in the clinic?” Ah. So he suspected they were keeping secrets from him. 

“We were speaking about whether or not you’re safe here.”

The boy stiffened, “You think that I might be in danger?” Recovering quickly, he added, "That’s okay. I’m not scared. I’m a Shimada. And _otou-san’s_ going to find out where I am and take me home any second.”

Weighing his next words carefully, Hanzo asked, keeping his voice so as not to upset what he imagined to be a precarious balance, “Would you mind telling me more about them?” Hesitation. “Your family, I mean.” Apprehension. “Of course, you don’t have to-“

“No!” The boy launched himself into a sitting position, his arms a flurry of motion as they flailed with the tireless rapidity of a young sparrow. “I mean… I want to. There isn’t really anyone to talk to at home, and _nii-san’s_ usually either too tired or too busy to play games.”

Excited babble filled the empty room with tales of slaying dragons in the creek, dragging his brother out to town to try the latest iteration of meat dumpling that the local ramen shop had to offer, a endeavor Hanzo remembered, though he listened without comment. His room was empty of photographs, of furnishings, of anything that could be construed as a personal touch. The bed, side table, couch, and chair were all provided upon his acceptance into Overwatch. With the exception of his clothes, his weapons, and a single feather, hidden away in the back of a drawer, it could very well have been empty, and yet, at some point between the time the boy nearly choked on a rice bun and the time he'd slipped outside the gates to play a game of tag with some of the boys whose homes neighbored the Shimada castle, during which he tripped, ruining his clothes in the mud, the warmth of the moment, of his presence, began to seep into the walls, where it remained without fading, setting into motion the transformation from a mere dwelling to a safe haven. 

The steady stream of one-sided conversation halted, however, when a flash of green and white slipped gracefully into the room.

“Woah.” Stepping into the light, Genji looked over the boy, taking in his appearance with a mixture of feelings that Hanzo couldn’t even begin to guess. He exhaled harshly through his ventilation system, the glow of his visor fixed on the child bearing the visage of his past self. “This is a new level of weird.”

“So cool!” The boy crowed, startling both of the Shimada brothers as he leapt off the bed, rushing to Genji’s side with a slew of questions. “What are you? Why do you glow like that? How come you’re not wearing any clothes?”

Genji stopped him right there by placing a cybernetic hand over the boy’s motor mouth. “I’m not?” Beneath the mechanical edge, there was an unmistakable wail of indignation, though it was all for show. “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?!” 

The boy pulled Genji’s hand away with an amused giggle, “ _Hen na yatsu._ ”

Ever the performer, Genji clapped an open palm over his heart, falling down to one knee as though wounded, prompting the boy to flit about him, tugging on his limbs to yank him to his feet, though the cybernetic ninja refused to budge. 

Hanzo allowed them this moment, burying any traces of envy with brutal efficiency.

 

The meeting with Zenyatta went about as well as could be expected.

He was charmed immediately by the child’s enthusiasm and heart, his brashness and spirit, even after the boy requested that the monk bring him a chocolate milk from the kitchens, having mistaken him for an advanced model of the service omnics they’d grown up with.

He’d been playing with one of the monk’s floating orbs when the question was posed, and though Zenyatta had seemed a little taken aback, he recovered quickly, and promised the boy that he would see if there was any in the kitchens to be found. “If it is possible, I will provide you with this sustenance.” It was said with absolute seriousness, as though the omnic were embarking on a sacred mission, but the boy merely gave a curt nod, already distracted by a second floating orb. 

Genji was mortified, his ventilation system working overtime in an effort to expel some of his excess heat. Meanwhile Hanzo, who had managed to absorb the entire scene with a straight face, finally quirked a rare and elusive smile. 

Upon catching sight of it, his brother froze, all functioning coming to a temporary halt as he struggled with the resulting conflict of emotions that plagued him. “It has been some time since I have seen you smile, brother,” he said once recovered. “You wear it well.” 

It was the boy who believed himself to be Genji’s childhood self that had brought Hanzo this happiness, not Genji himself. The bitterness of the realization overpowered its sweetness, so when it was time for Hanzo to take the boy to his diagnostic with Dr. Ziegler, it was with a brewing melancholy that he observed their retreating forms.

Gradually, Zenyatta lowered himself to the ground. “What is it that disturbs you, my student?”

With a heavy sigh, Genji confided in his master, “I believed I wished him happiness, and if not that, peace. But seeing him like this… I kind of want to kick him.”

“Certainly, your feelings are valid, but why not allow him this brief respite?”

“Because it’s not real, Master.” He clenched his fists, aware that he was losing his calm, his hard earned balance, but was met with limited success as he struggled to regain it. “I know who I am, and that boy he walks the halls with? That is not me.”

“You feel the boy is a fake?” Though the question was posed without judgement, Genji could not help but feel foolish. It was not fair to take out his frustrations on a child, not even one who bore his likeness. “Not so long ago, your brother would have said the same of you.” Zenyatta placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Everyone heals in their own manner, in their own time. If you are patient, as you have been, your brother will come to you.”

Perhaps. But if given the option of a brother who was whole, unbroken by their feud and the turmoil of the years that followed, would he still…

Would Hanzo still want him?


	4. lightning never strikes twice - part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goukon - a group blind date (karaoke is optional)
> 
> anija - brother 
> 
> haori - a short, open robe
> 
> ohayo - good morning
> 
> un- yes (informal)

That night, a fearsome thunderstorm buffeted Watchpoint with gusts of wind that bent the trunks of trees, tore their branches and flung them into the sea. Anguished howls rattled the windows, as though some creature, forgotten by time, were attempting to break down its walls. 

Lightning sliced the sky in a jagged pattern, erasing the dark with a blinding flash, followed by the earthshattering boom of the heavens breaking, falling, shattering like glass. 

Lying in Hanzo’s bed, tucked safely under the covers, the boy jerked at the sounds, gripping his sheets tighter in white knuckled fists as the storm raged on. 

“You are afraid of thunder,” Hanzo said. It was not a question, though there was a certain wonder to it, as he had not known this of Genji. 

“If my brother were here, he would tell me not to be afraid. A Shimada does not show weakness.” He recited the words with the thoughtless ease of one who had heard them repeated many times.

“Your brother believes himself to be wise,” Hanzo responded slowly, thinking back to the pride that had prevented him from seeing how fractured his relationship with his brother had become, how much influence the elders had claimed over him. “But he does not know all. Fear is not merely weakness. It is what keeps us alive.” He gestured towards the storm. “Thunder cannot hurt you. It is a sound, nothing more. But if you stepped outside, would you not be in danger? There is nothing wrong with fear, so long as you do not let it control you.”

The walls shook, trembling under the onslaught as thunder rent through wind and rain with the force of an aftershock. The boy shuddered. “Could you tell me a story? T-to take my mind off of it?”

There was only one story that Hanzo knew by heart, by skin, by blood and sweat and bone, and so, despite the boy’s initial protests, he wove a tale of two ancient dragons, brothers of the earth and sky. 

Consumed by his lust for power, the Dragon of the South Wind struck down his brother. “I never liked that part,” the child interrupted, his brow furrowed in thought. 

“No…” The archer fixed him with an indiscernible expression. “I imagine you wouldn’t.” From outside the room, there came a low, strangled sound, though it was drowned out by the storm.

When Hanzo reached the end of the story, where the slain brother, now human, called down to the Dragon of the South Wind, the dragon refused to rejoin his brother, believing he was no longer worthy to walk the earth by his side.

“Well, that’s dumb,” interjected the boy, disappointment plain in the unhappy slump of his shoulders. “His brother already forgave him, right? So why can’t he forgive himself?” He frowned. "I don't think I like this ending."

“Whether his brother forgives him or not, the wrong committed by the Dragon of the South Wind will not be erased.”

“But he’s not doing anyone any good if he spends the rest of his life brooding in the sky!” While this reaction was not entirely unexpected, Hanzo was beginning to find it difficult not to take this personally, though he was certain that the child knew nothing of the terrible sin he’d committed. “Even if the Dragon of the North can't fly anymore, he can still do other things, right? Like climb trees and sing? Being human’s not so bad once you get the hang of it.”

“Perhaps,” Hanzo conceded, thinking back to the few _goukons_ that Genji had roped him into attending during their youth, “though I cannot attest to his singing abilities.”

The boy giggled, likely amused by the image of a dragon attempting to sing. He seemed calmer now, so Hanzo stood, turning to leave so as to sleep on the couch, though he had a feeling that it would be some time still before he was alone. 

A small hand gripped the sleeve of his kimono, not tightly enough that he could not break away if he so chose, but enough to draw his attention to the round, pleading brown eyes of his little brother. “Please don’t leave. _Nii-san_ will come to bring me home soon, I know he will, so please don’t go.”

“Are you still afraid?” Hanzo sank back into the chair, yearning to hold the boy’s hand, to offer some measure of comfort, yet reluctant to touch him, as his touch was like that of Midas, except instead of bringing gold, it merely brought ruin. “Close your eyes, Genji.” It was a slip of the tongue, one Hanzo immediately regretted, but the boy was already falling asleep, his eyes glazed and unfocused as he settled deeper into the covers. “No harm will come to you here. You are safe.”

The boy yawned, smacking his lips with drowsy satisfaction. “Because you’ll protect me, right?”

He waited for Hanzo to answer, refusing stubbornly to let sleep take him, until finally Hanzo sighed, “Naturally. There are many here in Overwatch who would-” He stopped mid-sentence upon noticing the boy making a sour face, apparently displeased with his answer. “…Yes. I will protect you.”

Not long after that, the boy was fast asleep, murmuring quiet nonsense as though already plunged into a dream, and Hanzo slipped out into the living room, where he was unsurprised to find his brother leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a soft glow in the dark.

“For what reason have you come, Genji?” 

Judging by the subtle hunch in his shoulders, Hanzo guessed that he was sulking, but try as he might, he could not imagine why that would be the case, nor could he be certain that his observation was correct, not when the mask concealed so much, not when his voice, aided by artificial synthesizers to compensate for the extensive damage done to his throat, diluted so much of the emotion behind his words. 

Standing there in the silence proceeding his question, Hanzo marveled at how he knew more about the Genji sleeping in his bed than the one standing before him, and had no one to blame for that but himself. 

Rising to his feet like a shadow peeling itself away from the wall, Genji regarded Hanzo with that same expressionless mask, then slowly shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, resigned to whatever decision it was he’d come to. “Sleep well, _anija._ ”

He slipped soundlessly into the hallway, moving with the fluidity of absence, and Hanzo lingered, standing alone in the dark with a calloused palm placed over the heat radiating from the place where his brother’s body had rested for some time, the silence and frustration of too many unspoken words enough to occupy his heart and mind until an intrepid blue jay chirped outside his window, heralding the arrival of dawn.

 

On the morning of Dr. Ziegler’s test results, Hanzo worked the kinks out of his spine before stepping into his bedroom, prepared to wake the boy, only to be greeted by the sight of a small body rolling around on the floor. “I’m bored!”

Exhausted and annoyed beyond measure, Hanzo squeezed his eyes shut, massaging the bridge of his nose with the rough pads of his fingers. “It is much too early for this.”

After two nights of sleeping and running around the halls without a change of clothes, the boy was beginning to smell, so Hanzo instructed him to exchange the outfit that was so in need of a wash with the white haori he’d plucked from his closet. Once the boy’s shoulders were bare, his clothes, with the exception of his head protector and precious scarf, crumpled up in a pile on the floor, Hanzo wrapped the haori around him, then cinched it with a golden sash. It was the best he could do, given the circumstances. The cloth fell to the boy’s ankles, flowing freely as he spun in quick circles to examine it. 

Once that was done, the boy rushed into the bathroom to scrub his teeth, while Hanzo called ahead to let Dr. Ziegler know they would be paying her a visit before going down to breakfast. 

“ _Ohayo_ , Genji,” the doctor said kindly upon their arrival. She’d grown very attached to the rambunctious, spirited child during the short time he’d spent with them. “Has everything been going well between you and your roommate?” 

_“Un!”_ Straightening to his full height, and perhaps a little extra, he beamed, “I’ve been taking good care of him!”

Suppressing a smile, Dr. Ziegler lifted a single, delicate brow, silently asking Hanzo for his opinion on the matter.

The archer scoffed. “I am lucky to be alive.”

There was a soft click of keys as the doctor pulled up the boy’s results. At first, her expression conveyed mere curiosity, but then a slow horror distorted her features, paling her skin. Her gaze flickered between the child waiting eagerly for her to speak and Hanzo, who recognized the dread, mirrored it, felt it welling, an inescapable cold flooding his lungs. 

“Genji,” hearing his name called, the boy’s attention snapped to Hanzo, “could you give us a moment?” 

Initially, the boy’s expression hardened into a scowl, every muscle going taut as he prepared to stand his ground, but then Dr. Ziegler repeated the request, though she phrased it in such a way that the boy left feeling accomplished. Only a truly brave warrior, of great knowledge and skill, could be trusted to stand guard outside the door, after all.

Once he was gone, the doctor did not hesitate. “The boy is an omnic.” At Hanzo's lack of outward reaction, she frowned. She’d always known him to be stoic, yet had still expected something more volatile, not this grim, wounded acceptance. “Did you know this?”

Though he hadn’t been certain, the news did not surprise him. “Though there are many forces in this world that I will never understand, none of them will bring back the brother who was lost to me.”

Tentatively, she reached for his wrist. Hanzo allowed the light brush of her fingers as they curled around his skin, though not for his sake, as he was fully aware of the doctor’s own need for comfort. “I may need to deactivate him, Hanzo.” She was strained, burdened by the stress of her practical mind warring with her heart, a conflict Hanzo could all too easily sympathy with. “Morrison was right, if this is some sort of trap-”

“Allow me to speak with him, Dr. Ziegler.” Startled by the interruption, her lips parted in surprise. He could sense the indecision within her, the uncertainty. Even if the boy was made from gears and tubes and synthetic skin, he still thought of himself as Genji. He was still just a child. 

No matter what form he took, she could not bear to see Genji hurt again.

Keeping that in mind, Hanzo smoothly withdrew from her touch. Her honey-gold eyes followed him as he stood, until, finally, she gave a single, tired nod. 

It was all the permission he needed to do what was necessary.

 

Right outside the door, the boy was standing rigid as a soldier, shoulders drawn back in exaggerated posture. Upon seeing Hanzo, he lit up, before remembering that the duty he had been tasked with was very serious, and thus rearranged his youthful features into a scowl.

Forgoing any greeting, Hanzo sidled up next to him, quietly joining him on his watch. They remained like that for awhile, the boy watching the halls for intruders, for thieves and ninja and pirates, and the archer watching the boy, imagining what it would like to lose the joy and fun such a child had brought forcefully into his life for the second time. 

He cleared his throat. “Do you think you could spare a minute to answer a question of mine?” Still distracted by the phantoms of imagined enemies, the boy spared him a quick nod. “Why did you choose me? You could have stayed with any of the members at Overwatch, they would have welcomed you, spoiled you, yet you specifically asked for me.”

Reading his thoughts was a simple task, as the boy, despite his upbringing, or rather the upbringing he’d been programmed with, struggled with both the concept and practice of concealing his emotions. He was flabbergasted by how Hanzo even knew of his request, especially when he’d specifically asked Morrison not to tell anyone, but didn’t consider that his pointed glance in the archer’s direction during their clandestine conversation would have betrayed his intentions more decisively than had he shouted them through a megaphone. 

Scuffing the floor with his feet, the boy finally looked up at Hanzo, a little shyly, and said, “Everytime you looked at me, you seemed so sad. I wanted to know why.” 

Hanzo gritted his teeth. 

This was an omnic, not a child. It should not have mattered that it cared for him. If anything, considering its appearance, the omnic had been unknowingly carrying out orders to stay close to him, so that Hanzo would grow attached to it. Too attached to allow for its deactivation, even after it revealed itself as a threat. 

No. It wasn’t a child, nor was it Genji, though every time the boy – as he could not help but continue to think of him – carded his fingers through auburn undertones that glinted in the lights, or looked around with round, amber eyes that Hanzo could recall also seeing in faded pictures of their mother, Hanzo felt a fresh wave of remorse for all that his actions had stolen from his brother. 

How did the omnic know Genji’s mannerisms so well? How did it recall their shared history together so easily, citing details not even Hanzo himself could recall, repeating thoughts, feelings, and memories that only his brother could know? 

In any case, those were all questions that Dr. Ziegler would soon be able to answer. 

“Genji?” The boy looked up, a pink flush staining his cheeks. “There is something I must tell you-”

Red light flooded the hallways as alarms began to blare, signaling intruders. Morrison could be heard shouting into his comm, demanding to know how the Talon agents streaming into their base had gotten past their defenses. Hanzo flicked on his own comm, listening with the same brand of quiet acceptance he’d demonstrated in Dr. Ziegler’s clinic as Winston explained that an unknown signal was jamming their systems. “It took its time, moving slowly so I wouldn’t notice. Without any knowledge of its source, it will be difficult to isolate, but I will do what I can.” 

Morrison grunted, “That’s all I ask, Winston,” then leapt to join the fray. Gunshots echoed down the halls. It would not be long before they were overrun. 

“Stay with the doctor,” Hanzo snapped, readying his bow, pulling it taut as he prepared to join his comrades already engaged in battle and even the odds, but the boy latched onto his wrist, his mouth pressed together in a thin, stubborn line. 

“I can help!”

Pretending to relent, Hanzo relaxed, lowering his weapon as though resigned, but when the boy dropped his guard, he opened the door to Mercy’s clinic and shoved him inside. “You can help by staying here,” he said simply, ignoring the shouts that followed his back as he sprinted to confront the intruders who clearly found so little value in their lives, as to throw them away by diving into the shared den of two dragons.


	5. lightning never strikes twice - part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ryuujin no ken wo kurae - taste the blade of the dragon god
> 
> shinigami - death god
> 
> ryuu ga waga otouto wo mamotte kure - dragon, protect my younger brother (phrased as if asking for a favor)
> 
> wakizashi - short blade
> 
> hanashite - let go of me

_Ryuujin no ken wo kurae!_

Bullets whizzed past in short spurts, accompanied by the glow of Genji’s _katana_ as he charged the mass of masked men swarming through the gaping hole that was once the main entrance of Overwatch. 

They must have detonated explosives, taking out the metal doors, as well as most of the front wall, to create this opportunity. Particulates of dust, gypsum plaster, and wood scratched at Hanzo’s throat as he rushed onto the scene, firing off arrows to cover McCree and Morrison, while Genji struck down his enemies, the spectral maw of his dragon wide and hungry. 

It had been some time since Hanzo had seen its rage directed at a common foe. 

His own dragons stirred beneath his skin, eager to join in the carnage, yet he reined them in. To set them loose in such a narrow corridor, with such a volume of bodies, would be foolish. The risk to his allies would be greater than that to his enemies. 

Additionally, there was no telling how Genji’s divine protector would react when joined in battle by the very man who’d come so close to claiming his life. For now, the power of Genji’s formidable strikes would have to be enough.

Due to the close quarters, Hanzo’s arrows were taking too long to prepare, the instant between firing one into the chest of a soldier and plucking another from his quiver proving to nearly be his undoing, so he gripped two by the shaft, hands positioned as close the sharp, solid points as he could manage, and wielded them as makeshift blades, aiming for the weak spots in every armor, for joints, sides, underarms, and throats. 

The areas that required lightness and flexibility were always the simplest to penetrate. 

However, just when it seemed that their combined efforts would stem the flood, an imposing figure joined the Talon ranks, galvanizing them into taking advantage of their sheer, overwhelming numbers to rush the soldier and the cowboy, forcing them to devote the majority of their offense to the agents stepping over the fallen bodies of their comrades to block their way.

It cleared a path for the reaper, the _shinigami_ adorned with a mask in the shape of an owl, its surface whiter than bone, with hollow sockets that absorbed everything, yet saw nothing.

It raised a gloved hand, presenting a round, blinking ball to the group. Hanzo heard Winston shouting through the communication link before a thumb slammed down on its surface, triggering a mechanism that sent a rapid pulse through the air. Though Hanzo raised an arm to defend himself, it passed through him without harm. A quick glance to the side revealed that the Morrison and the cowboy were similarly unaffected, yet something still felt off. 

A man whose device had malfunctioned would not radiate such unbearable smugness.

Genji stood frozen, his blade held high, poised to strike in an aborted attack as his lights began to flicker. Once. Twice. 

It was the only warning they had before his cybernetic body collapsed, crashing violently to the floor in a mess of dead weight and unmoving limbs. 

He cried out, still conscious. 

With Morrison and McCree still pinned down, it was left to Hanzo to rush to his side, as he obliterated any of the Talon operatives who tried to stop him with ruthless efficiency. 

“Is this the most I can expect from your cybernetic pet, Jack?” Though Genji was prone and defenseless, the wraith landed a swift kick to the side of the cyborg’s head. “Too easy.”

There came an incoherent scream of rage from Morrison as he tossed a Talon agent over his shoulder, bent on plowing through the numbers to get to Reyes so he could make the man who could not die taste death once more. It was drowned out by the deafening roar in Hanzo’s ears, the snarl of the dragon at seeing his brother treated like a pile of worthless garbage. 

Breaking his vows, he snatched the green-edged blade off the ground and leapt forward, swinging it down in a long, powerful arc that would have sliced a lesser man in two. The reaper deflected the strike with the serrated razors protruding his gauntlet, but the force drove him back, giving Hanzo the opportunity to intercede on his fallen brother’s behalf as he positioned himself in front of him, to wield his sword yet serve as his shield. 

As the reaper recovered, the blade hummed in Hanzo’s grasp, agitated. The dragon within sensed the presence of the one who had once destroyed its host, and recoiled, rejecting him. 

The _katana_ vibrated, the sensation traveling up Hanzo’s forearms as he willed the blade not to shatter.

To demonstrate his respect, Hanzo bowed his head, murmuring quietly to the dragon god stirring within, “On this day, our goals coincide. You protected him from me, once. Now, I beseech you, oh mighty dragon, help me right the wrongs of the past." He snarled at blade's lack of response, baring his teeth. "If you truly value his life, dragon, then you will help me save him!” A disgruntled growl seemed to emanate from the sword before the vibration ceased, and the blade fell still. 

The dragon did not favor him, but it would accept him, nonetheless. For now. 

After a quick nod that could not begin to convey his gratitude, Hanzo ignored the reaper looming over him, preparing to strike, and turned the blade on his brother. In that moment, where Genji laid entirely at his mercy, his head lolling as he struggled to understand what was happening, Hanzo did not permit himself to think of their shared past, nor to imagine what terrible thoughts seeing Hanzo standing over him, poised to strike, would trigger. That would all come later. 

The ground trembled as he called on the dragon’s power. 

_Ryuu ga waga otouto wo mamotte kure!_

And it surged forth from the blade, its translucent scales shimmering as its massive body followed its head. Twisting in the confined space, it burned, tore, and maimed any foe in its path, before curling around Genji, forming a circle of impenetrable defense, as though the cyborg were the dragon’s own child. 

The light of Genji’s visor returned, along with some mobility, as he processed this new development with a mix of bewilderment and awe. 

Hanzo huffed, satisfied that the dragon would allow no harm to come to him, though whether it would permit Hanzo’s approach following the outcome of this battle was a different matter. Besides protecting Genji, he had set no other parameters to their temporary alliance, and so remained wary of coming into contact with the ancient beast, as his body still recalled the sting of their last encounter.

Cold fire raked across his back, syphoning his heat. It numbed him, stealing the strength from his limbs. 

Behind the towering wall of his dragon, Genji screamed for him.

Gripping the hilt of his brother’s sword, Hanzo straightened his back, refusing to wince or otherwise betray weakness as ruined skin and muscle shrieked at the movement, then turned quickly to deflect the claws swinging down at his chest, each wet and crimson with his blood. “Even after everything you’ve done, you still care for him. That is your weakness.”

Reinforcements were coming. Tracer and Lucio’s voices could be heard shouting through the communication link. They were close. 

Soon, Overwatch would be purged of Talon, and Hanzo would have time to tend to his wounds. Perhaps, he would do so before checking on the boy. “Why have you not summoned your dragons?” The reaper continued, shifting tactics when mentioning his brother failed to bait him. “Is it because you fear they will attack your allies?” Hanzo did not reply with words, but the increased force of his strike spoke volumes. “You don’t trust Overwatch, do you?”

Finally, the reaper’s words cut through the swathes of his fury. Though Hanzo refused to disengage or give up ground, his assault came to an abrupt halt. “They have given me much,” he spoke steadily, weighing his words, “though I deserve none of it.”

For a brief instant, the reaper appeared to relax. “Then-”

“But that does not mean I will follow you.” Flipping the _katana_ onto its side, Hanzo ran its edge over the wraith’s metal claws, freeing the blade from the clinch and breaking the deadlock, allowing him to throw his opponent off balance, and strike. The blade’s teeth chewed through armor, through black robes that dissipated like curling smoke, before lodging itself in marrow that decayed as it regenerated. 

Hanzo ducked, yanking harshly on the hilt of Genji’s _katana_ in an attempt to loosen it, as it was as much a part of him as the dragon, a piece of who he was. In truth, Hanzo would have rather forfeited his own life than become the instrument of any further loss. It was a sentiment the reaper was only too happy to oblige.

Just as Hanzo felt the blade begin to give, an iron grip latched around his throat, lifting him off his feet as it choked off his windpipe. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” growled his death. 

But it would have to wait. A cluster of spinning _shuriken_ clashed against the reaper’s gauntlet, spitting sparks. Still, he held fast to the archer, refusing to grant him any release, until a purple orb rolled against the tip of his boot, spewing an acrid smoke so thick it obscured the end of his arm from his vision. 

Enraged, the reaper lashed out blindly. 

Sensing the opportunity the distraction had presented, Hanzo shoved a sharp heel into the masked man’s wounded shoulder, then jerked backwards as the hold around him weakened, eventually dropping into a crouch at his release. Though his strangulation had been short-lived, it was a relief to breath freely again. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo caught a flash of bright orange. There was a tight grip his sleeve, drawing him away. Unfortunately, despite its panicked insistence, he could not leave alone.

Though he’d expected the dragon to hinder his approach, he was met with no resistance as he bent to heft Genji onto his back. 

The three of them settled in a small alcove, finding shelter in a spot where they could still see and hear the lingering chaos left by their departure. There was a burst of neon blue light and lime green as Tracer and Lucio rushed onto the scene, though most of the work was already done, with the majority of the soldiers either incapacitated or dead. 

The cowboy and the soldier had made for a formidable team.

Beside Hanzo, green lights flared to life as Genji’s auxiliary systems came back online. His vitals were powered by an additional core, one which drew its power from a reserve in the event of a forced shutdown. 

After a time, Hanzo asked after his machinery. “Are all your parts functioning as they should be?”

Despite the gravity of their situation, the visor concealing Genji’s face was not enough to diminish the dryness pervading his tone when he replied shortly, “I am not a television set, Hanzo.” Ignoring the jibe, Hanzo held out his _katana_ for him to take, but Genji shook his head, opting instead to draw his _wakizashi_. “Hold onto that for a while longer, Hanzo. We are not, as they say, out of the woods yet.” 

“Is the cyborg-ninja-dude going to be okay?” The boy had fretted endlessly, fussing over the two of them until Hanzo had assured him that the wounds revealed by his damaged clothing were merely superficial. When the English proved too advanced for the boy to understand, however, he merely opted with, “It does not hurt.”

Similarly, when asked about Genji’s recovery, Hanzo kept his answer short and simple. “He will be fine. Death does not come easily to him.”

The boy breathed a sigh of relief, trusting him instantly. It had been too long since anyone had placed such unwavering trust in him. He’d forgotten how overwhelming it could be.

A subtle heat emanating from the boy’s wrist drew Hanzo’s attention. Following his gaze, the boy looked down the see a gash in his skin, inside of which were wires, some cut, others crushed. Their severed ends emitted glowing sparks that further singed the surrounding tissue. 

Not here. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. 

“Have you been enjoying the replacement we got you, Hanzo?” The taunting bellow dropped to a sneer, yet Hanzo heard every word as though the man were standing over him, pressing the barrel of a gun to his forehead. “It’s a limited time offer.”

A blinking red light appeared beneath the boy’s _haori_ , directly over his heart. It spread, growing larger and larger as its blinks increased in frequency, and the boy’s expression twisted, turning from confusion to utter agony. 

In all the ways that mattered, he was just a child, a human child, honest and innocent and good, yet the monsters that created him with the ability to feel were now forcing him to suffer for it. 

He turned frightened eyes on Hanzo, silently pleading for him to save him. But there was no time. 

Cursing his own helplessness, Hanzo pulled him into a crushing embrace, holding the boy tightly even as the heat emanating from his torso began to burn. 

“It hurts, _nii-san._ ”

There was no time to save the boy, but that did not mean he had to die alone. 

Someone grabbed Hanzo’s shoulder with bruising strength, shouting urgently in words that held no meaning as they ripped him away from the boy, who reached out for him, shocked by his sudden absence, before the boy's chest burst with flames, and every part of him became lost in fire. 

Despite the wreckage, despite the sound of the blast sting ringing in his ears, Hanzo refused to believe it. He continued to struggle against his unwanted savior. “Let me go! _Hanashite!_ That’s my brother!”

“No, he’s not!” It was Genji. His prosthetic fingers curled into the tatters of Hanzo’s clothing as he dropped to his knees. “Look at me, _anija._ Please.” 

He was frightened, Hanzo realized. Frightened of losing him. Abruptly, a wave of guilt flooded him at how close he’d come to abandoning his brother for the second time. “Even if his body is gone, you have not lost him,” Genji whispered, so low Hanzo found himself straining to make out the words. “You have not lost _me._ ”

Time passed. The sounds of battle died to a hum. Unable to contain his shame, Hanzo bowed his head. “…I am sorry, Genji.”

Genji blew out a harsh breath. It rattled like a death throe in his damaged lungs, but the relief behind it was unmistakable as he slowly loosened his hold on him and leaned back, allowing them both some space. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He would say it as many times as he had to, as many times as it took for Hanzo to finally believe him.

He was about to suggest that they should regroup with the others, though he was no more eager to see his brother put in harm’s way again than his omnic counterpart had been, when Hanzo brought him up short. “It should have been you.” Surprised and wary, Genji stiffened. His brother did not seem to notice. “I see now what I was blinded to, then... When you and the clan were at odds, I should have stood at your side. I should have chosen you.”

And hearing those words said aloud shouldn't have meant the world to him. Genji had moved on some time ago, after all. He’d put the past behind him, forgiven his brother’s sins… yet there was an uncomfortable pressure in his chest as what remained of his ruined lungs expanded, possessed by the urge to devour gulps of pure, untainted air and never stop. 

“You…” He stopped to swallow; his thoughts not easily presenting themselves. “Though I have long accepted who I have become… it lightens my spirit greatly to hear you say that.”

After climbing to his feet, Hanzo stooped to lift a charred metal band off the ground. He traced the curves with his thumb, memorizing the imperfections, then placed it over his quiver. There was little else left of the boy to hold onto. 

“You cared for him,” Genji quietly observed.

“Yes.” Moving fluidly, Hanzo notched an arrow, its deadly point meant for a single target. 

When they regrouped with the others, Reaper and a handful of Talon operatives were all that remained of the former onslaught. Overwatch’s defense system was back online, cutting off any hope for reinforcements. Winston was making expert use of it by triggering the hallway surveillance system’s offensive mode, allowing him to assault the trace remnants with sprays of machinegun fire and short, rapid bursts of lasers. 

In the face of his defeat, Reaper snarled at his enemies like a cornered beast, growling threats with a passion that verged on madness as he attempted to take grab ahold of Lena or Lucio, intending to take one of them down with him.

Until an arrow flew through his skull. Standing at a distance, Hanzo lowered his bow.

He watched without feeling as the wraith dissipated into a thick cloud of black smoke, aware that he would be seeing him again. 

In the future, others would strive to use his past against him, but Hanzo refused to view the love he held for his family as a weakness. It was all he had left to separate him from the dark abyss where the true monsters waited, hungrily, for those who fell from grace to join their ranks.

 

A few weeks following that encounter, the Shimada brothers were sent on their first mission together since Hanzo’s initiation into Overwatch. It was an infiltration mission. There was a rumor going around that some of the larger corporations in Shanghai were covertly sending funds to local criminal organizations. The mission was not to directly confront the objects of those rumors, but rather to find out if there was any merit to them.

Nervous, though he would never admit it, Hanzo paced the rooftop overlooking the city streets, going over precautions, resources, extractions points, communications, back-up plans, the back-up plans for the back-up plans, while his brother looked on in amused silence.

After a certain point, Genji clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry so much, _anija_. If anything happens, I know you’ll protect me.” Laughing at the shocked expression on his brother’s face, Genji stepped off the balcony and into freefall. 

Shaking his head, Hanzo dearly hoped his brother’s technologically advanced eyesight would not be enough for him to see the faint rosy tint to his cheeks in the dark. 

There were cars below, a busy street, people milling back and forth along the sidewalk. By all rights, the cyborg should have been spotted the moment he stepped outside, yet his stealth had improved greatly over the years. 

He was waiting in the shadows, a subtle green light that only a trained eye would notice, and even that was likely because Genji wanted to be found. 

Before moving to follow, Hanzo brushed the rough edges of the head protector encircling his quiver. Feeling his resolve harden into polished diamond, he rubbed away the traces of black soot staining his fingers, then took a running start, and leapt into the open air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all for 'lightning never strikes twice.' Hope you enjoyed it!


	6. Of Loss & Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the former Junker is far from his ideal partner, when they find themselves cornered on what was supposed to be a simple mission, besieged by an enemy they cannot hope to match and cut off from their allies, Hanzo doesn't hesitate. 
> 
> One of them needs to make it out of that canyon alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who saw the Magnificent Seven?

Pressing a palm against his against the source of the crimson ruining his traditional garb, Hanzo ducked quickly behind the boulder, crouching low as the one known as Junkrat gleefully launched grenades at their enemy.

They’d been ambushed. 

It was supposed to have been a routine surveillance mission, a chance for the archer and the mad bomber to find a rhythm to their teamwork, as Morrison had observed that their clashing personalities and stubbornness were preventing them from reaching any sort of understanding that would allow for a fully functioning team. 

“You don’t have to like each other,” he’d told them. “You just need to put aside your differences long enough to complete the mission. That’s all I’m asking.”

As the warm liquid spread, darkening blue silk into a midnight violet, Hanzo realized with a stifled groan that he should have turned the man down, commander or not. 

“You alright there, cobber?” Stomach screaming as torn flesh and muscle stretched, Hanzo rolled on his side to catch Junkrat shooting him a wary glance, though it ended quickly as the Talon agents constantly trying to swarm their position required his constant attention, especially when his grenades and traps were the only force keeping the Talon agents gathered on the other side of the canyon from overwhelming them with their numbers. 

With so many bullets whizzing through the moistureless air, perhaps Hanzo shouldn’t have been surprised that one of them had found its mark. One poor shot would have never found their mark, but with a small army of them and an inexhaustible amount of ammo, the odds were on their side. 

Pushing past the debilitating pain, Hanzo growled as he nocked Storm Bow with three arrows, “I am fine. Do not waste your concern on me.” He released the bow, feeling the mild sting on his cheek as the shafts rushed past to fly in a long, high arc, before burrowing their heads deep into the ribcages of three soldiers who'd so foolishly stepped within his range.

Impressed, Junkrat leaned back with a low whistle, “And here I thought that stick of yours was just for show.” A shark-like grin spread across his face as a group of armed soldiers suddenly disappeared in a roaring cloud of dust and flame. “Think you can keep up with these babies?” He reached over, patting the pile of explosives between them with noticeable fondness. 

A rapid popping assaulted their ears. Chips of their boulder became projectiles of their own as the Gatling gun Talon fired upon their position ate away at what little shelter they had. Soon, there would be nothing left. 

Besides the disadvantage of the flat terrain, something was jamming the comm links. Though it wouldn’t be long before Winston or Morrison sent reinforcements - regular check-ins were required for the purpose of discerning exactly such an occasion - there was no way of knowing when they would be arriving or even if they’d been sent.

Worst case scenario – the team arrived to find both of their corpses strewn across the battlefield.

Clutching his wound, Hanzo’s weary expression twisted into a pained grimace. 

He refused to accept such an outcome. 

Before Junkrat returned his focus to the battlefield, he registered the considering glance Hanzo spared the pile. “We shall see.” Though he managed to hear the solemn reply over the dull, distant cacophony of yet another triggered mine, he didn’t think much of it until the archer ran unprotected out into the open, braving the assault as he fired arrows into the droves of approaching enemies.

A soldier seated on the back of a black stallion drove his horse to race towards him, intending to trample the man beneath the animal’s hooves, but Hanzo dodged swiftly, too fast for such a maneuver even in his weakened state, grabbed the soldier by the vest, and dragged him off, claiming the horse for himself.

Though there wasn’t any time, he ran a hand along the taut muscles of the beast’s sweat-drenched neck, then urged it forward, driving it into the endless barrage of lead raining down on them. 

“Get back here!” Junkrat screamed after him, now aiming the grenades in the hopes of somehow keeping this crazy archer alive. “Leave the reckless suicide charges to the professionals, would ya?”

Wind whipping through his hair, back curved so as to decrease his body’s resistance and provide his head some protection from the bullets that stung his arms and legs, Hanzo snapped the reins, murmuring encouragements to the frightened animal beneath him as he rode it towards the storm. 

They were closing in on the Talon encampment, so close Hanzo could see his charge reflected in the visors of their helmets, but just as he drew an arrow intended for the gears of the rattling machinegun, propped up on a stand and guarded towards the front of the camp, his beast reared, unleashing an agonized cry towards the cloudless sky before collapsing to the earth. 

Groaning, an arm wrapped around his middle now that the wound had been so relentlessly aggravated, Hanzo crawled out from beneath his steed, dismayed to see the light begin to flee from its dark, intelligent eyes. 

There was blooding running down its once powerful legs in warm streams, but it was the sizable holes, large enough to fit two fingers through, left in the flesh of its neck that had finally brought the beast down. 

Out of respect for the creature who had carried him fearlessly towards his foes, Hanzo ignored the rifles aimed at his head long enough to brush closed its lids. "May you achieve peace in your next life."

“Enough!” One of the soldier’s barked, jamming the barrel of their gun into his shoulder. Hanzo hissed at the blow, but otherwise remained silent. “Stand up. We’re taking you back to headquarters.

The demand was met with a humorless chuckle. “I am not going anywhere with you.” He pitched forward, seemingly reaching the end of his rope, until another soldier aimed a bruising kick to his rib cage, and his hand shot out like a claw, drawing a startled yell as he squeezed the soldier’s ankle, then raised his head to reveal a bloodied grin full of pins as he presented the armed grenades pressed against his chest. Still baring his teeth, he spat the pins at their feet. “It is you who are coming with me.”

Seconds before the grenades detonated, erasing the world in an all-consuming flash of white and raging fire, the dragons wrapped around his arm glowed an ethereal blue.

Junkrat, who’d torn after him once he’d realized the archer’s intentions, found him soon after in the rubble. “Ya selfish bastard!” He yelled as he propped Hanzo’s head up on his knees. Dazedly, Hanzo wondered how it was that he was still alive. “What am I supposed to tell the cyborg, huh? You and me, we hate each other’s guts!” It must have been because his ears were still ringing from the blast, but it sounded almost as though the Australian was holding back tears. It was a ridiculous, sentimental thought. “Whatcha doing up and dying for me like this?”

Though his voice tore at his already damaged throat like rusty nails scraping against his esophagus, Hanzo rasped, “You are my comrade.” A violent cough shook him. “Is that not enough?”

Briefly struck speechless, Junkrat could only offer a slight nod as the wind began to pick up. Head tilted back, he looked gratefully up at the sky, a relieved smile spreading across his weathered features. “Yeah, it is, mate. But I’m gonna ask ya to do a little more for me, alright?” A roaring crashed against Hanzo’s eardrums, sending a thrill of fear through his rapidly cooling body that another explosion had been triggered. Junkrat, however, seemed unconcerned. “The cavalry’s here.”

 

Junkrat did not do sitting still. He was a constant force of motion, a chemical reaction of the most volatile components, so when the members of Overwatch who had not been sent on the emergency retrieval mission noticed him sitting outside Mercy’s clinic, vibrating in a chair with his knee jumping, foot tapping a mile a minute, they knew something terrible must have happened. 

By the time Mercy deemed Hanzo stable, Lucio was sitting in the corner with his headphones stretched to compensate for Lena, each of them listening to the tracks he’d written to inspire healing and goodwill, hoping that somehow Hanzo could hear them, too. 

D. Va had tried to read a gaming magazine, but kept finding herself distracted by unwelcome thoughts, and so settled for glaring stonily at the door, willing it to open. 

McCree and Genji alternated between standing watch and fetching them food and water, as the others were reluctant to do so on the off chance that they miss some important news due to their absence. 

After an hour that stretched for a year became several that stretched for a decade, the door swung open to reveal an exhausted, but smiling Angela. “He’s stable,” she assured her captive audience, eliciting a series of relieved exhales. 

At the sight of Genji, who straightened at the news as the others leapt to their feet, a slight frown curved her lips. With a smile that now seemed strained, she subtly refused to acknowledge the quizzical tilt of his head, choosing instead to warn Hanzo’s eager visitors that they needed to keep their voices low and their visit under ten minutes. Though he was awake and lucid, she was a doctor, not a miracle worker. After his extensive regeneration, plenty of rest, specifically a good night’s sleep, was in order. 

Finally, she stepped aside to allow them entry, though Junkrat and McCree chose to remain. “Don’t really want to overwhelm the poor guy, you know?” The cowboy explained.

Hanzo was already sitting up when they entered. Bandages wrapped around his torso and shoulder. His long hair spilled unchecked down his back and over his collar bone. A hand raised in silent greeting, as though he’d been expecting them for some time. D. Va surged forward, slamming her hands down on the thick blankets pulled up to the archer’s waist as she demanded to know what on earth he’d been thinking, going and getting himself blown up like that. Sniffing to prevent herself from crying, she asked, “Do you have any idea how worried about you, bonehead? We’ve been waiting forever!”

She hunched her shoulders, striving for composure, when a heavy hand fell on her head. “Forgive me. I did not intend to worry you.” Hanzo glanced around at the others, noting the multiple signs of strain in their features. 

Clasping his free hand between her palms, Lena said, “Don’t apologize, luv. We’re just glad you’re okay.” Unsure of what to say, Hanzo merely acknowledged her words with a grateful nod.

“This better not happen again, though.” Reaching behind her back, D. Va retrieved an old model of a portable gaming system. It unfolded to reveal a panel of buttons as well as a small screen, roughly the size of a post-it note. “You still haven’t beaten me at Rainbow Road yet, so practice on that until you’re well enough to play for real, okay?”

Touched by the unexpected gift, Hanzo assured her that he would hone his hand-eye coordination, reaction time, and dexterity on the device, as he fully intended to meet her challenge with the same single-minded determination with which he’d achieved his skills as an archer. It was that same serious streak that had drawn D. Va to him in the first place.

The device was not the last of his gifts, however. Lucio placed the track he’d shared with Lena on the nightstand next to Hanzo’s cot, while Lena offered up a pair of wireless headphones. 

Thinking himself unworthy of such attention, Hanzo attempted to return the gifts, insisting that he could not accept them, but his protests went mysteriously unheard by the three, who merely reiterated how relieved they were that he was okay, each of them already enthused as they bounced ideas off each other for how they would celebrate Hanzo’s eventual release.

Having received the message loud and clear, Hanzo gave his head a rueful shake. There was no helping it, then. The presents would stay. 

After a few more minutes of enthusiastic brainstorming, Angela tapped lightly on her wrist, indicating that it was time for the young ones to take their leave for the day. 

Though reluctant to end their visit, the three quickly said their good-byes, each of them assuring the archer that they would be back again in the morning, as though he would grow lonely without their presence. 

That assumption may not have been entirely inaccurate, however, as Hanzo felt their absence keenly.

In the corner, Genji’s lights glowed faintly. His gaze, too, was focused on the exit from which they’d departed. As it was impossible to know precisely what he was thinking beneath his visor, Hanzo made no effort to guess. Rather, he waited for Genji to give voice to his thoughts on his own accord. He didn't have to wait long. “I take my eyes off you for a minute, brother, and this happens.” An audible frown laced his words. “I am beginning to wonder if my invitation has not shortened your lifespan.”

“You did not force me to join, Genji.” Hanzo reminded him. “You bare no responsibility for my actions, nor do you hold any claim over my life.”

Settling back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, Genji mulled over his words. “Your life…” He lifted his head. “You offered it to me once.”

Unsure of where he was going with this, Hanzo furrowed his brow. “It was not so long ago that I would forget.” He could still feel the cold steel of his brother’s blade pressed against his throat.

“If I were to claim it now,” Genji ventured, “would you be less eager to throw it away?” Abruptly, he straightened, then made to head for the door. “Forgive me, _anija_ ," he said quickly. "It has been a trying day. I will return in the morning with the others.”

“Genji.” The softly uttered name stopped the cyborg in his tracks, far better than any shackles would have. Slowly, he shifted his body to see that Hanzo had thrown aside his layers of blankets, revealing healing stumps where his thighs cut off before the knee. Knitted flesh, still pink and raw, shone where Angela had worked to regrow the tissue. 

Sitting there, bare and vulnerable, there appeared to be so much less of the man he’d once known, whose very name, when mentioned, had once chilled him with fear, burned him with rage, yet Genji knew in his heart that what Hanzo now lacked in body, he had gained in his spirit. 

He knew better than most that one did not need to be complete to be whole. 

Even still… he hadn’t wanted this. Hanzo had survived a decade alone without any major injury, yet less than a year after accepting his invitation to join Overwatch, he’d suffered such a grievous and permanent loss. 

The sight before him, once he would have considered it a fitting revenge, yet now it carved a hollow beneath his armored plates. He resisted the urge to clutch at his chest, knowing that the sensation was all in his mind.

When the silence stretched for too long, the sense of its length exasperated by Genji’s own unnatural stillness, Hanzo found he could no longer take the anticipation. “The doctor told me she would gladly create mechanical replacements for my legs.” Defiance hardened his features. “I can still fight.”

“Of that,” Genji said quietly, unable to tear his gaze away from the empty space where the ghost of his brother’s limbs rested, “I do not doubt.”

Gesturing to the scarring tissue, Hanzo muttered, “I did not rush into battle this day to atone for past mistakes.” 

Genji cocked his quizzically head to the side. That almost sounded like… “You are trying to say I am not to blame for your current condition, brother?” 

The question was met with a tame scoff. “That should have been obvious.”

Genji chuckled weakly. The moment lingered, with each of them aware that they were standing at a precipice, or perhaps hanging off of it. Which direction would lead to safety, which direction to doom, there was no way to tell, and so Genji hovered, trapped in indecision, until Hanzo subtly indicated a wooden chair positioned in the corner closest to the wall the head of his cot was pressed against. “If you do not wish to go, I am not adverse to your company.”

And the tension broke, harmless as a soap bubble bursting. For the first time since he’d heard the news, Genji's mechanical tones were tinged with a smile. “Then I will stay.”

As he crossed the room to settle into the seat with the grace characteristic of their upbringing, Hanzo gathered the track, headphones, and gaming system off the nightstand, then placed them in his lap, taking his time as he curiously scrutinized each of the odd gifts.

Lucio’s track was burned on a disk kept within a clear case decorated with lime green highlights. Hanzo turned it over to see his pale, drawn features reflected atop a spectrum of primary colors.

As Lena’s headphones were wireless, Hanzo found himself at a loss as to how he was supposed to connect them. Bemused, he flipped D. Va’s gift to find a port marked with a headset symbol, which would have been wonderful if his had possessed anything to connect it with. 

At least the roughly CD-shaped cover on the system’s surface was clear enough. Careful not to place any fingermarks on its reflective side, Hanzo fitted the disc within the system's drive, secretly impressed by how well they'd coordinated their efforts, even if he would need to schedule some time to read up on how their presents worked once he was cleared for discharge. 

“It is painful to watch you, brother.”

In answer to the dry ribbing, Hanzo scowled. “I do not recall asking for your opinion.”

Sighing, Genji made a mental note to show his brother the wonders of Bluetooth. “You care for them.” He half expected Hanzo to claim otherwise, though his affection was much too obvious for any denials to prove effective.

Grip tightening on the items placed on his lap, Hanzo glanced sharply at the cyborg, before recalling once more that there was no need to guard his feelings so closely in his company. “Yes,” Hanzo replied after a time, his tone thoughtful, yet resolved. “Which is why I can no longer allow you to lay sole claim to my life.”

Something warm swelled beneath Genji’s chest plate. It took him a moment to recognize it for what it was - pride. “I see.” 

For as far back as he could remember, he could not recall having ever before been so relieved or so happy to be denied.

As Hanzo occupied himself with the quiet whirring of Lucio’s track, which was to be the closest he would come to listening to the song this night, Genji’s gaze fell upon the intricately tattooed dragons staining his skin. From what Junkrat had told him – _Your bro should’ve died after that dumb stunt he pulled. Would’ve too, ‘cept these blue dragons came out of nowhere, curled around ‘em like he was their pup or something._ – they had saved his life, as his own dragon had once saved his.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the ancient spirits, inclining his head towards their painted maws in a subtle bow.

Hanzo’s sharp ears picked up on the whisper, though not on its content. When pressed, however, Genji refused to elaborate, then to escape his brother’s prodding, settled into his chair to sleep for the next week. 

It had been a trying day, after all.

 

“Didn’t know the bloke could sleep,” said a high, scraping voice from the doorway. Hanzo immediately pegged it as belonging to the former Junker. Sure enough, his silhouette filled the entrance, his coarse blond hair visible in the wall of unfiltered white light behind him, still matted with dust and ash. He shifted to get a better look at the sleeping cyborg. “Guess ya learn something new everyday.”

Turning to Hanzo, he asked, “He always been this protective?” 

Any desire to speak with the Australian, most of which had already been extinguished after their first encounter, vanished into nonexistence. "No."

Acting as though he were unaware of Hanzo’s abrupt freezing over, Junkrat lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug, “Yeah, guess I should’ve figured. Hey,” he found a chair by the bed next to Hanzo’s and noisily dragged it over, “you mind if I hide out here for the night. Ol’ Roadhog thinks I stole his beer.”

Slumping with resignation, experience had taught him that this was not a man who was not prone to, or perhaps even capable of taking no for an answer, as he would simply pester until he got his way, Hanzo decided to spare himself the headache. Reluctantly, he indulged in the urge to ask him, “Did you?”

The former Junker’s features stretched into a wolfish grin. “Snagged the whole pack.”

The conversation rapidly stalled after that, however, as Hanzo made no effort to continue it, though the gall of the man to steal from his seven-foot bodyguard did impress him, and Junkrat had a certain subject on his mind, one which he internally wrestled for some time before coming right out and blurting, “Do you think I could see?”

“Oh.” Hanzo had wondered what was keeping the man so uncharacteristically quiet, “Is that all?” It was not as though this would be Junkrat’s first time seeing the result of Hanzo’s reckless bid to save him. After shifting the collection of objects off his lap, Hanzo dropped what remained of his limbs over the bedside, allowing them to hang as he bared himself before the man. The sense of vulnerability the gesture instilled in him would take some getting used to, but he would learn to cope with it until the cybernetic prosthetics were ready.

To his surprise and internal dismay, Junkrat hissed softly at the sight. “I know I saw it before, but I thought maybe –” He cut himself off with a low, muttered curse, before collapsing against the wall behind him, a calloused palm coming up to fall heavily across his eyes. “Don’t do it again, mate.”

It was a long night after that, filled with quiet synthesized snores and persistent inane chatter. Not once did the two of them ever broach the mission again, nor did Hanzo ever muster up the desire to ask the crazed outlaw to leave. 

Of course, come morning, Junkrat was thoroughly scolded by Angela for sneaking into the medical bay, as well as for disturbing her patient’s rest, but that did not stop him from slipping in on the next night with three beers and a magazine. 

Though his bombastic presence was hardly conducive to a good night’s rest, it did much to keep the boredom at bay, and because of that, or perhaps because the man never once treated the archer as though he were any less capable due to his injuries, as his own missing leg had never once slowed him down, Hanzo found that he was able to find some measure of peace in the chaos he carried.

Though the visits came to an abrupt stop once Angela banned Junkrat’s I.D. card from the medical bay's security scanner, Hanzo discovered upon the completion of his first sojourn from clinic to his quarters in his newly fitted carbon steel prosthetics, something he'd asked Angela to keep private - even knowing it would disappoint the others, he could not bear for them to witness his awkward and hobbling steps - that his release had not yet gone entirely unnoticed, as there were several bottles of Roadhog’s favorite brand sitting on his doorstep, one for every night the explosives expert had missed.


	7. Ghost - part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mention of a suicide attempt

He should have known this would happen, eventually. No paradise was meant to last forever. 

He’d made the mistake of wandering too far from the base, deep into the words where cautionary tales of wolves and witches warned children not to venture. 

Yearning for a brief reprieve from the light and sound, from a family, each connected by bonds than ran deeper than blood, that despite his past and all of his many flaws had accepted him as one of their own. It was more than he had ever dared to hope for, more than he deserved. 

It overwhelmed him, sometimes. 

He hadn’t meant to leave for long. The night was cool, a mild breeze shifting the air with the lingering scent of that afternoon’s rainstorm still present in its current, and his legs, restless, yearned for the exercise. 

A _kyudo-gi_ seemed out of place for a jog through the woods, so he substituted the traditional attire for a short-sleeved white t-shirt with a pair of navy blue sweats he’d swiped from his brother’s bottom drawer. It seemed appropriate retribution for all the years of mysteriously disappearing jeans, _yukata_ , sandals, sneakers, and other articles that he’d endured during their youth. Unlike Genji, however, he fully intended to return the clothing once he returned from his run. 

It wouldn’t do to return the outfit saturated with sweat, however. Perhaps, if he was quiet, he could throw the clothes into the washer and dryer, then return them to Genji’s drawer before he ever noticed they were gone. Or, perhaps, he was being ridiculous and overthinking this. 

A gnarled root appeared on the trail he was trotting on, its appearance monstrous and reaching in the meager illumination provided by a moon that shone behind wisps of clouds so dark they blended in with the endless reaches of space above them. 

Hanzo deftly jumped over it, his mind now derailed by the sudden realization that absconding with his brother’s clothes, and then subsequently returning them without his notice, was going to prove to be more time consuming and burdensome than if he’d simply asked to borrow the clothing in the first place.

A thin branch, barren of leaves due to the approaching winter, scratched a shallow divet in his cheek as he increased his speed to a sprint, flying past the stones and dips in the dirt as the path began its sharp dive into towards the ocean. He could already taste the tang of salt on his tongue, breathed it in through flaring nostrils as a white barn owl launched itself from its perch, bursting through a cluster of curling brown leaves and skeletal limbs in a shrieking flurry of feathers. 

Though he was making no conscious effort to quiet his steps, his body had, through training, been imbued with a natural inclination to mute its movements, always striving to be unobtrusive. 

It was not unheard to think that he would disturb an animal so unaccustomed to the sight of humans, but to frighten it into frenzy… Had he truly been so careless?

Hanzo crouched low, staring past the thick trunks of the narrowly spaced trees, senses alert for any signs of movement: a broken branch, a gleam of metal, the click of a trigger. Instinctively, he reached over his shoulder to nock an arrow, only to realize with a muttered curse that he’d left his weapons in his quarters. 

There was something – a sound. A labored rattle, as though through damaged lungs.

If there was an enemy waiting for him in the dark, then they were already aware of his position. What they were not aware of was his rapidly dwindling patience. “I know you are there,” Hanzo called past the trees. “Come out and face me.”

As though emboldened by his challenge, a section of the night split from the shadows cast by the many sprawling branches of a towering Yew, taking on its own form as a shade that drifted soundlessly towards the path.

The weakness of the moon’s light allowed for mere glimpses of the pale mask the shade wore beneath its hood, giving the being a sense of disembodiment, as though it were truly a vengeful wraith, driven by its resentment and bound by hatred for those still drawing breath. 

Except no spirit Hanzo had ever heard of had ever wielded duel rifles. 

The cloaked figured stepped into the paltry light, revealing a thick, heavy cloak and boots that sank into the dirt. Now that he could see it clearly, Hanzo recognized his mask as that of the terrorist known as Reaper, formerly known as Blackwatch commander Gabriel Reyes.

A rustling in the underbrush behind him alerted Hanzo to the presence of the soldiers approaching on his rear. Each of their visors shone with a greenish tint, the sole indicator of their activated night vision.

Unarmed, alone, and outnumbered by enemies in an unfamiliar terrain, they had him dead to rights. 

But if it was his life they were after, then they were going to have to work for it. 

With a feral snarl, Hanzo launched himself at the closest solider, digging his nails into any exposed flesh he could find, driving his heel into the man’s knee until it collapsed inwards, giving under his weight with a wet snap. 

The man howled as he went down, but Hanzo was already moving onto the next, shoving cold barrels of high-strength steel to the side, and jamming the base of his palm against tinted glass masks that shattered into the eyes and cheeks of the men who wore them. 

The key was to keep moving, to always stay in close quarters, to never give the operatives the opportunity to raise their weapons to his head or chest without potentially endangering one of their own. He was, in essence, using their own numbers against them. 

In most aspects, he was at a disadvantage, but had he not been trained to overcome such poor odds? There was always a path to victory. In times like these, one only needed to find it. 

Hanzo breathed evenly, moved fluidly from one strike to the next, until a burst of scattered flame, followed by a thunderous discharge, changed the playing field. Lips parted in silent surprise, the man Hanzo had ducked behind glanced down at the gaping wound in his chest. Hanzo, too, stared down at it in horror, watching as the soldier struggled to gasp for air, until his body could no longer prolong the inevitable, and he dropped to the ground, dead before his head hit the dirt. 

Disgusted, Hanzo snarled at the wraith with the smoking barrel, “You would sacrifice one of your own? You have fallen far, Reyes.” So far, in fact, that Hanzo wondered if redemption was not entirely beyond his reach, yet what right did he have to pass such a judgment onto another?

Turning his head with deliberate slowness, Reaper fixed his false gaze on the archer. “My men are willing to die to carry out an objective. That is what they are trained for.” The gloved hand raised above his chest clenched into a fist, signaling his men to latch themselves onto Hanzo’s arms, to drag his snarling, snapping form to the earth, where they forced his forehead to press against mud and the rotten, frozen detritus buried within it. 

A rifle butt was jammed against the back of his head to quiet him, causing his vision to fill with explosions of white spots as Reaper’s boots squelched in the muck, stopping just beyond where his hand could reach. “No one,” the former Blackwatch commander sneered, “calls me Reyes, anymore. That man is long gone.”

Despite the cold chill of a barrel pressed against his scalp, Hanzo struggled to raise his head. “I do not confess to know much of you, Reaper. The wound your death left behind is still too raw for your former comrades to speak of you without pain, but it is obvious that many of them admired you.”

“They had a funny way of showing it,” Reaper growled, lowering his guns. “They abandoned me. They betrayed _me_.”

“You speak of betrayal as though they, and not you, were targeting the lives of their former companions.” The restraints on Hanzo’s arms grew even more restricting, to the point where he was sure they would leave bands of bruises wrapped around his wrists and biceps like shackles, but it didn’t matter in the slightest. If he was going to die, then he was going to speak his mind. 

Pressing the tip of a rifle against Hanzo’s forehead, Reaper told him, “They turned me into a monstrosity.”

Drawing on the lessons his own mistakes had carved into his soul, and on what little he had observed of Zenyatta’s teachings, Hanzo answered with a genuine sincerity that surprised even him, “Only our choices can make us monstrous. This immortal life, though forced upon you, needn’t be your curse.”

A man who had fallen from grace, who blamed the world, refusing to accept the crushing weight of his own responsibility – if someone reached out to such a man, there was a chance that he could find salvation. And, if not that, peace.

Even after all this time, there were people waiting for Gabriel Reyes to return him. People who had done so much for him, that it seemed cruel not to at least attempt to offer him that same sense of belonging and acceptance that they’d offered him. 

Removing the barrel of his gun from Hanzo’s forehead, Reaper took a step back. “You don’t know what you’re taking about, Shimada.” And Hanzo lifted his head, ignoring the weapon still jutting against his skull, refusing to let the dismay he felt at witnessing firsthand the result of this former hero's disintegration show. For a moment, Reaper appeared thoughtful. He chuckled quietly, cruelty in each utterance. “Perhaps, I should change that.” 

Horrified by the implication, Hanzo bucked and writhed, throwing off his captors, until one of the soldiers managed to embed a tranquilizer in his thigh, causing his movements to gradually become sluggish, until finally consciousness fled, allowing the Talon agents to carry him away. 

It was on that night that the birds of prey stole a dragon, and dragged it into darkness.

 

The inky black sky stood in sharp contrast to the bustling, beeping, glowing city below it. Wide streets filled to the brim with cars, cars filled with families going out to eat, a nurse at the start of her shift, a financial adviser on his way home after a long day of watching the stocks rise and fall.

So many lives to protect, so many people Overwatch had the responsibility to keep out of harm’s way, to brush against so lightly that they never knew how drastically their whole world could change in an instant. 

It was for them that Genji was perched atop the base of the thick, towering antenna adorning the roof of the Empire State Building, where he dutifully scanned the surrounding structures and windows for any signs of electric green laser light, though if this new assassin, referred to only as Ghost in the underground channels, was truly as good as their informant claimed, then there was a chance he’d forgo the scope for the very purpose of obliterating any sign of his presence.

One did not acquire an appellation such as that, and at such an early stage, without reason. 

_We don’t know who or what this Ghost character is_ , Morrison’s disgruntled voice rumbled over the comm link. After the search for Hanzo had proved fruitless, he’d been forced to reassign the cyborg to other missions that required his particular skill set, _so if you spot him, I don’t want you doing anything rash. Overwatch already more than enough cowboys, Shimada._

Genji cocked his head to the side with a combination of amusement and irritation, fingers bending at the joints as they entwined themselves within the folds of the golden sash blowing about his person as he was once more reminded that ninjas thrived when they kept to the shadows. His mission was to identify the objective - the Pro-Omnic protest scheduled to take place that evening had been covertly relocated, so as to minimize the risk of any civilians being caught in the potential conflict - report back to Overwatch, and then wait for reinforcements. It was _not_ to rush headfirst with guns blazing into every hub or hole in the ground that seemed like it might contain a lead.

A year to the day had passed since his brother’s disappearance, yet Dr. Ziegler and Morrison still restrained him, forbade him from taking point on any offensive endeavors, as though keeping him on a leash would prevent him from vanishing as his brother did.

Though none of his friends had said so aloud, Genji knew that many believed him dead. Even still, there was no mission Genji participated in where he didn’t search the crowds for his brother’s face. The others believed him grieving. They couldn’t feel the faltering beat of Hanzo’s clinging existence as he could. 

Though the bond between them and their dragons had not yet been severed, something was wrong. There was a time when Hanzo’s dragons responded to his calls, a subtle twinge in the connection between them, a strumming of a cord. 

The sensation had gradually grown weaker over the following months, until one day when he meditated on their connection, aligned his thoughts and feelings with it, it was to experience as the bond itself began to fragment, sending an tortured, inhuman screech through the link that ran through his mind with the sharpened point of a dagger.

Hanzo lived. Of that, Genji was certain. And he would continue to search for as long as it took to find him again, but… He could not abandon his teammates, nor could he abandon his duty to protect the innocent. 

The sun ducked below the horizon, taking with it the golden hues, the reds, and warm orange. A blue night followed quickly on its heels, and Genji watched in quiet awe as his perch burst into bright spikes of dancing, rippling spotlights. 

Leaping down from his position, Genji landed effortlessly on the railing lining the ramp below, then walked along it with lithe, fluid strides, as he batted away the flap on his satchel, then carefully withdrew a stick of incense, along with a delicately painted stand. At the height where he stood, the wind was ferocious. It battered his arms, legs, and torso, howled its fury at the impudence of his presence, but this sight before him now, that of a busy, thriving city, filled with the potential for good, was something he’d have very much liked to show his brother. 

This was what they risked their lives for, after all. 

Someday, that dream would come to pass, but until then, Genji could only hope that his adherence to the old ways would grant his brother some measure of peace. Crouching low, he set the incense down within the protective confines of a corner, down by the base of an old fashioned binocular stand. 

Inclining his head towards the smoldering stick, Genji watched the curls of smoke dissipate as the wind took them and carried them off. “We will meet again, _anija_.”

As he turned to leave, an azure glow flitting across the windows caught his eye. He halted, one hand surreptitiously reaching for his blade. 

This could be any of a number of assassins. There were too many after his life to guarantee that this was his objective. “I am searching for one known only as Ghost,” Genji called out. “It is said that he moves as though he has already passed beyond the veil of this world, without sound or breath.” A scornful scoff traveled without resistance through the empty world they inhabited. “Since you’ve alerted me to your presence, however, it appears that you are not the assassin I seek.”

When it came to luring out an enemy, a well-timed taunt could work wonders. 

To his surprise, Genji’s thoughts momentarily drifted back to Hanzo as the figure deftly vaulted over the spindly wires rising from the guard fence that spared those standing at the edge of the outlook from the rather nasty fall waiting for them should they tip over the side.

A blue visor peeked out from under an ornate forehead protector, the metal carved to form cloud-like brows and curved horns, with a luminous stone embedded in its center. It was only a sliver, though, as the entirety of the assassin’s jaw was concealed, hidden by the veil tucked into his faceplate.

Spikes protruded from the assassin’s shoulders, though they didn’t distract from the ventilation ports located beneath them. 

Was it full body armor? Or did Talon decide to create a cyborg of their own? Reyes always was the competitive sort. 

Morrison’s voice crackled, urgent. _Genji? What’s going on over there?_

The assassin tilted his head, keeping his hands harmlessly at his sides, though Genji kept his gaze locked on the blade strapped to his back. He activated his comm to announce that he may have found a lead on their Ghost. 

“Well?” Genji prompted the silent mercenary, ignoring Morrison’s increasingly frustrated demands that he wait for back-up. It seemed the assassin was counting on him to initiate this battle, as he had made no other move since his arrival, and so Genji unsheathed his _katana_ and sprinted forward, not aiming to kill. Not when they needed information. 

The assassin moved lightly across the concrete, his steps eerily silent as he leapt out of Genji’s range time and time again. 

“It is you, isn’t it?” Had Talon bestowed this man with his current form in order to save him, as Dr. Ziegler had once done for his sake? Somehow, given their history, Genji found that notion doubtful. 

A well-aimed strike scraped against the man’s ridged chest plate, and he leapt to find higher ground, staring down wordlessly at the cyborg from where his armored hands had gripped the antenna built in the column above the outlook like ladder rungs. “Why do you not draw your sword, Ghost? Are you frightened of me?” 

A _kunai_ thrown with deadly precision flew over Genji’s shoulder, slicing the incense he’d lit into diagonally cut pieces that tumbled from the stand to drop to the concrete floor, where they laid innocuously alongside discarded gum wrappers and used cigarettes. 

Suddenly serious, Genji feinted to the left, then launched himself to the right with synthetically enhanced muscles that pushed him past the limits of the human body. He still wasn’t aiming to kill, but when a strike finally landed, he imagined it would do more than tickle. 

There was a sharp intake of breath from the assassin. He swung around the column before Genji’s blade could find its mark, then continued to evade, often darting behind segments of the building in an effort to hinder the cyborg’s attacks.

Morrison wasn’t going to be happy with him if the Pentagon sent Overwatch a bill for slicing off pieces of a national landmark. Avoiding any excess damage to the structure was proving to be an obstacle, presenting an irritation that only grew as his opponent made no move to flee or counterattack. 

What could he be thinking? For what reason would an enemy go to such lengths not to draw his blade?

Was Genji being tested? Or was his opponent merely waiting for him to tire?

He slid from the higher level the assassin had goaded him to, leaving a thin white line behind as his pointed boots scraped against the wall of clear glass, until he finally came to a stop on the concrete, and lowered his blade. “Tell me, if not to fight, then why are you here?”

The assassin stared down at him from above, wary. Calculating. Then turned sharply, a blue streak cutting through the air as he shifted, lowering his head to land on a point behind the cyborg. Alert, Genji followed his gaze in time to spot the bullet careening towards him. He dodged, bending over backwards to avoid both the shot and the swirling current around it. 

It slammed against the building, shattering the windows into jagged pieces that collapsed in a shower of broken glass. Even the steel frame, damaged by the impact, warped and groaned as the remaining unaffected bars struggled to adjust. 

Genji focused on following the path of the bullet as he crouched, deeming the sniper the greater threat for the time being. 

He switched to thermal vision. There was a cold spot on the end of a crane hanging over the roof of a nearby hotel. It registered as several degrees below average core temperature for a healthy human, yet the figure moved with the speed of a lioness, tucking the rifle under a slender, toned arm as they made for cover. 

He didn’t need to see the unnatural tint to her skin to know Widowmaker had very nearly succeeded in taking his life. 

There was little even Dr. Ziegler could do to substitute for a beating heart. If given the time to prepare, perhaps, but there was nothing she could do for him from Watchpoint. 

Had this man, this Talon operative, intended to warn him? 

“Who are you?” He’d lowered his guard, overwhelmed by the dread chilling what remained of his organic body. It proved to be a mistake, as between one breath and the next, the assassin had rushed down from his position and pressed the jagged edge of a sword against his neck.

Though unseen, Genji’s brown eyes, the most expressive part of him, widened in shock at the sudden aggression. He swallowed, forcing a lightness to his words as he said, “And here I was starting to think you weren’t going to fight.”

The pressure held for a moment longer, then lifted, gone as suddenly as it had come. The assassin increased the distance between them as he sheathed his weapon, a subtle shake of his head the only indication of the humanity buried beneath his cybernetic exterior. 

They faced each other in silence; the wind whipping the golden sash Genji wore as the assassin’s veil fluttered. A strangled, incoherent utterance preceded the assassin taking a tentative step forward. 

To remain out in the open like this was to endanger them both. Once she realized Genji wasn’t going to close in on her position, Widowmaker would prepare another round, and this time, if this was truly Ghost he’d encountered, if he’d meant to give away the sniper’s location and he meant to spare him now, then the next could very well be aimed with the intention of taking out both of them.

But he needed to know. This man who stood before him, who hesitated to draw his blade and refused to cut him down… What face lurked beneath his mask?

The man reached up to grip his visor, ventilation ports rising to expel a rush of steam as the locks disengaged. 

Then paused, his gaze suddenly zeroing in on the farthest corner of the outlook. Genji bit down on the urge to shout at him, to make any claims he might regret, but the dragon in him was stirring, waking. It knew what he could hardly dare to believe.

“Hanzo.”

He swung back to Genji, startled by the pained recognition in his voice, then retreated several steps towards the fence, where the ocean and the dark sky beckoned. 

Genji reached for him, silently pleading with his brother not to leave. 

But that all stopped when a cloud of dense smoke rushed from the shadowed corner, forming a towering, robed figure that raised a pump action shotgun to Genji’s forehead. “I believe I gave you orders to kill this man, agent.” The assassin said nothing in reply. Instead, he stood frozen, limbs locked against his will. “Has your tongue not finished regenerating yet?” Reaper sneered. “I suppose that’s what we get for using a second-rate Caduceus from a third-rate doctor.”

A low growl ripped through Genji’s chest. “Reyes, what have you _done_ to him?”

“What have I done? I’m afraid _I_ can’t take credit for that one.” There it was. The cruel, mocking timbre that Genji struggled to reconcile with the man he’d once been. Had their circumstances been altered, had Reyes not stood before him as an enemy and a threat, Genji might have appreciated the note of wry amusement in his gravelly voice. “As I recall, it was your brother who didn’t see the appeal of immortality.” While Genji reeled from the revelation that Hanzo had attempted to take his own life in captivity, the wraith ended on a dry note, “Can’t imagine why.”

Without lowering his guard, Reaper focused the majority of his attention on the paralyzed assassin, “I am going to free you now, Shimada. Do not disappoint me.”

There was a click from an unknown source, and the assassin came free with a lurch, temporarily disoriented by the sudden mobility. Gathering himself, he straightened to his full height, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade as Genji watched in muted horror. A sliver of silver glittered in the shifting light show, glowing gold then royal blue then sea green, until he released the hilt, allowing it to fall into the sheath with a dull thud, turned to face Reaper, and confidently mimed firing an arrow into the dry husk that remained of the wraith’s heart. 

Reaper snarled, revealing a blinking remote from under a billowing sleeve. “So be it, then. It’s time you learned that a good soldier follows orders.” A metal talon clicked on a round, black button, and the assassin stiffened, the light emanating from his visor and ventilation ports blinking out like a broken bulb as his body fell heavily onto the concrete.

_“Ryuujin no ken wo kurae!”_

Throwing caution aside, Genji called upon his dragon to devour the black creature looming over his brother’s fallen form, the orchestrator of his pain. Power swept through him, surging through veins, through circuits, propelled forth by rage as the ancient serpent heeded his call, and wrapped around his body, then fell on his _katana_ , allowed itself to be guided by the arc of his strike as he lunged towards Reaper with the intent to devour him down to his bones.

By the time Genji was done, there would not be a single cell left for him to regenerate from.

A dark cackle issued forth from the wraith’s mask at the fearsome sight of the green dragon’s gaping maw, “Are you sure fighting me is what you should be doing right now?” Channeling the hostility and fury of its conduit, the dragon snapped at his padded shoulder. It gave way beneath its jaws, breaking off into wisps of black vapor. 

Snarling as the mist swirled, then condensed to return the reaper to his original form, the mighty dragon reared its head, scales flashing as its spectral glow flowed through and around Genji’s blade, transforming his _katana_ into an extension of its fangs as it prepared to strike again.

However, Genji hesitated, glancing anxiously at the fallen form of his brother. The dragon spirit growled a warning, eager to cut down the ghoulish, twisted soul that had dared corrupt its kin. Though he shared its wrath, his mind was clear. 

Even if his cybernetic enhancements were to be deactivated, Mercy had installed a series of security features, including a battery-powered reserve for emergency life support, which would give his teammates enough time to get him back to base to undergo repairs. Without an artificial respiratory system, it would not be long before he suffocated. His lungs were little more than scraps of tissue with too many holes burned in them to be of any use when stripped of the mesh wall surrounding each, or the pump that enabled them to fill and empty without struggle. 

He listened again for the sound of his brother breathing, taking in the ragged, labored wheezing with new understanding. A feeble gust of wind passing through a rusted pipe would have sounded much the same. Lying there, immobile and helpless, Hanzo was slowly suffocating. 

“I see you’ve finally realized that suit of his isn’t for show. Like you, he needs it to survive. But unlike you, the nanomachines regenerating and breaking down his cells will never let him stay dead for long. Who knows how many times he’s died, already?” 

Genji changed his stance, shifting to a quick strike that could determine the winner of this encounter in an instant. The accents on his armored plating flared, a beacon of single-minded purpose reaching up into the night sky. Staying hidden was no longer his concern. If the woman who felled Mondatta chose to pursue him, to stand between him and the medical attention Hanzo so desperately needed, then he would be forced to exact the revenge his master had not asked for. 

Noticing the increased aggression in his demeanor, Reaper continued, “Come now, I thought you would be pleased. Didn’t you want your brother to know exactly what he put you through?”

“Do not lay your twisted machinations at my feet as though they were a gift.” Tranquility eluded him, calm forsook him as a dangerous tempest churned within his mind. He pushed against the storm to regain control. “I did not ask for this.”

Reaper considered that, his hollow gaze fixed on the cyborg, taking in the spectral energy that still emanated in steady waves from the razor edge of his weapon. “You told me once that revenge was your reason for living.”

“Yes,” a heavy sadness crept through Genji’s synthetic voice, the aggressive form with which he'd held his sword relaxed, “and you told me that such a reason would never bring me peace.”

The wheezing stopped; replaced by a silence so massive it left no room for thought, no space with which to breath. Aiming the barrels of both his shotguns at Genji’s forehead, Reaper told him without cruelty or malice, “I’m not that man, anymore.”

But before he could finish applying the pressure necessary to fire off the shots that would have taken the cyborg’s head at such close range, Genji sheathed his sword and swerved to the side, simultaneously tossing the _shuriken_ he’d lodged between his fingers as he moved to avoid the blast. 

Snarling, Reaper snatched them from the curved forehead of his mask. He regarded them with palpable contempt, until their edges began to blink, and fire bled through his hands, reaching up to consume him in an agonizing cloud of red, yellow, and orange. 

While he swatted at the flames, Genji knelt to gather Hanzo into his arms, shocked by how little he weighed, armor and all, then sprinted for the skyscraper’s edge. A projectile - a lead bullet, deadly in its momentum, clipped his shoulder, stripping him of a panel of protective plating as he ran, but he did not cry out. Instead, he lengthened his strides until the edge passed beneath him, and his feet touched lightly against glass windows as he sprinted down the side of the building, towards alleys that would hide them, shadows that would shield their presence until this long night ended, and the morning led them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!


	8. Iro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iro ( Japanese ) - color
> 
> Videshee ( Hindi ) - foreigner 
> 
> Krpaya, sheeman, mere dost kee madad ( Hindi ) - Please, mister, help my friend.
> 
> Aap ek rakshak, bhee tha? ( Hindi ) - You had a guardian, too?

There’s a street market in India where shuffling feet kick up dust in billowing clouds. They obscure the vendors and booths, giving those who walk through them a disorienting sense of detachment as they strive to keep the dirt from their lungs. 

While to some it was a vital source of sustenance, to Hanzo it was little more than a road to pass through. 

Still, he had traveled through worse. Despite the dust, the vibrant red of cherry tomatoes, the deep violet of eggplant, the oranges and greens and yellows, all stood out as exceptionally vibrant, and the clothes worn by the people were equally so. The women, in particular, seemed to favor bright and complex floral patterns, garb designed to draw the eye. 

As he strode by a stack of fresh cabbages, he noted the silk sari draped over the left shoulder of a woman who could not be older than her early thirties. A garden of daises rose from its hem, reaching up towards her torso as though unfurling for the sun.

She was watching as the vendor turned over the cabbage she had pointed out to check for blind spots, and upon finding none, purchased the item with a nod and a smile. 

He was bombarded by polka dots, by garish striped polos and their owners, who gestured for him to examine their baskets full of turnips and carrots, as well as other assorted fruits and vegetables. 

He declined politely more often than not, having learned over the years that a stand-offish, silent man would stand out where a man who simply refused with a regretful shake of his head would not. 

Had he remained in Hanamura for the rest of his life, he would have remained ignorant of this vast world outside the Shimada Clan, though it may have been that the elders had wished that of him. It was so much easier to control a young leader when they were naïve as well as inexperienced. 

Realizing that the elders had very likely instigated his confrontation with Genji as a test of his obedience had taken time. It had been difficult to see past his pride, though it had been his pride that had blinded him to their machinations. They had never intended to follow him, but rather to groom him as the puppet through which they would control the empire.

Despite his skill, despite years of study and training, he had always been little more than a pawn to them.

And Genji?

Collateral damage. 

A grey Omnic sitting on a stool behind a cart filled with spotless bananas asked the archer if he would like to try one. “Potassium can help a great deal with muscle soreness and cramping,” it told him. Since Hanzo couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d eaten a banana, or even what he’d consumed for breakfast that morning, if he’d eaten anything at all, he dropped several coins into the Omnic’s segmented hand, then pocketed the banana it offered.

It wished him a good day as he moved on. 

The integration of the Omnics in the marketplace was a surprise, in no small part because Southern Asian had suffered greatly during the Omnic Wars, but perhaps he’d underestimated the spread and influence of the late Mondatta’s teachings.

The archer was nearly past the marketplace when a shrill scream rang out. It'd originated from the alley a few steps behind him. 

He’d been distracted. 

He hadn’t looked inside. 

Now he retraced his steps, furtively pressed against the wall in the hopes of learning the cause of that scream before the cause learned of him. With the concrete pressing against his back, he identified at least six men, each of them armed with ordinary tools and wooden baseball bats. They were circled around a child with a single ebony braid going down her back, no older than nine, and the damaged Omnic she was shielding. 

She shivered as she clung to it, shielded it so the men could not further harm the automaton without harming her, too. 

Unfortunately, not all of the men were willing to prioritize the child’s safety over their hatred for the Omnic. One man raised his bat over his head, as though preparing to strike both the child and the robot she protected. 

Left alone, the results could be disastrous. 

_This has nothing to do with me_ , Hanzo thought as he stepped out of the shadows. He quickly nocked an arrow, aiming it at the man intending to begin his assault. “I would drop that bat, if I were you.”

The men turned, but a tick too slow, their reflexes dulled by what the reddish flush to their tan cheeks and the glassiness of their eyes told him was the alcohol poisoning their systems. 

Hanzo carried a flask of sake at his waist, but he did not drink to the point of stupidity, and certainly did not go wandering around in public searching for something to take his frustrations out on. There must have been a reason these men were doing this, some grievance or grudge they carried, but Hanzo wasn’t interested. There was an unarmed child cowering on the ground, her sari, a thin garment patterned with pink lilies, draped over the Omnic’s head as though the cloth could somehow save it.

If Hanzo listened closely, he could hear the robot begging her to run. 

Hanzo did not believe in the humanity of the Omnic, nor was he fool enough to fashion himself as some kind of defender of the innocent, but the girl and her guardian were outnumbered by men who should have known better than to take their frustrations out on the weak and defenseless, and that was something he could not ignore. 

A flash of green darted across the rooftop in his peripheral, but its significance failed to register, as at the same time the girl raised her head to look at the archer with hope blooming in her almond brown eyes. He gestured with his bow for the men to put down their weapons. 

The first man he’d spoken to, one of the youngest of the group, scoffed, “There’s no law against harming an Omnic, _videshee_. But there’s plenty against harming civilians.” There’s a slur to his words. It doesn't stop his companions from rethinking their compliance.

Though annoyed that the man’s defiance had caused the rest of the group to regain what little resolve they had, Hanzo noted the dirt on their elbows and knees as they tightened their grips on their weapons, all of their attention on him now instead of the girl. 

She tugged at the Omnic in an attempt to drag it away now that they were no longer surrounded, but the Omnic’s motor functions had been damaged by the blows Hanzo suspected it'd sustained while protecting her. Unlike the men, the girl was clean for the most part, any traces of dirt on her recent. She was the daughter of merchants, a caste above her assailants. 

It certainly lent credibility to the theory that Omnic-hatred was not the sole motivator of this conflict, but that hardly mattered now. Wherever Hanzo pointed his bow, there was a body. In such a narrow arena, firing an arrow into the chest of one man could allow for the rest to strike him from behind. 

There was only one thing to do in such situations, wasn’t there?

The men in front of him shifted nervously as a feral grin crept up his face. It was not the expression they'd expected to see on a cornered man. 

Hanzo released his arrow into the thigh of the man directly in front of him, causing him to yelp and crash into his companions, thus breaking the seamless circle they’d formed. He ducked to the side to avoid the crowbar aimed at his head from behind, then blinked in surprise as the assailant fell to the ground, clutching the shuriken buried within his shoulder blade. 

He didn’t stop to think on it, but fired a volley at the feet and knees of the men around him. They outnumbered him, but years of training and experience had been good for something, after all. While drink had made these men sluggish, his reflexes were sharp, honed to a deadly edge. 

He stepped out of the circle of fallen bodies at his feet without looking down. “The next time you find yourselves itching for a release, think back on this pain. The innocent are often not so defenseless as they appear.”

A chorus of groans met his words, but Hanzo supposed it would have to do. His thoughts were already moving past them and onto the girl. 

She’d managed to drag the Omnic several feet across the dirt and was still pulling at its limbs now, her brow furrowed and beading with sweat as slender arms struggled to bear the overwhelming burden of the automaton’s dead weight. 

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at his approach, resuming her former position as the robot’s shield without a second’s hesitation. She remained like that until Hanzo unstrapped his bow and quiver, then kneeled to lay them on the ground. Continuing to utilize slow movements, he opened his palms to show that he had no intention of harming her or the Omnic. 

Gradually, she withdrew from its body, allowing him to see the full extent of the damage. Its headplate was severely dented, sparks trickled from its shoulders and hands. The injuries were all consistent with both an ambush and defensive wounds, though the archer had expected nothing less.

 _“Krpaya, sheeman, mere dost kee madad.”_

Regretfully, he shook his head. The Mandarin and smattering of Korean he’d studied in his youth were proving to be of little use when it came to deciphering any meaning from the Hindi language. “I’m sorry, but I don’t-“

A calm, mechanized voice from behind him interrupted, “She’s asking you to help her friend.” Genji stepped forward to kneel on the Omnic’s opposite side, pinched a set of exposed wire sticking out from a gouge in the Omnic’s torso, then politely asked the girl, “May I?” He gestured to supplement for the minimal inflection in his tone. After looking to Hanzo for reassurance, the girl nodded, withdrawing carefully from the Omnic to allow for some space, though she refused to move far, and would throw herself over the robot once more should it appear that any harm would come to it. For Hanzo’s sake, Genji explained as he stripped the plastic covering off the wires he’d gripped, “Most Omnics regenerate automatically when damaged. It’s likely that there’s some kind of block preventing his system from repairing itself, so I’m going to try to kickstart it by channeling into him some of my own energy.”

The girl watched with a hawkish gaze, her mouth pressed in a thin line as Genji used one of his fingers to inject a foreign electrical current into the Omnic. After what she’d experienced, Hanzo couldn’t help but be impressed by her dedication, even if he could not quite find it within himself to comprehend it. Why would anyone go to such lengths to protect an artificial life? Of the two, was it not the girl who was irreplaceable? 

Feeling the weight of his attention, the girl softened considerably. With a questioning nod towards Genji, she asked, “ _Aap ek rakshak, bhee tha?_ ”

When Hanzo asked his brother for the meaning of her words, Genji merely regarded her in silence for a moment, before slowly inclining his head. 

However frustrating it was to be left out of the loop, the archer could not argue with the results. The child’s youthful features brightened, her mouth spreading into a wide smile that showed off the large gap where her adult teeth had yet to grow in. 

There was a whirring of gears as the Omnic’s visual sensors flared to their full brightness, before finally stabilizing as its self-repair began the complex process of completing what his brother had started. 

With an enthusiastic shout, the girl threw herself at the Omnic, wrapping her arms around its neck in a fierce embrace as it fumbled to catch her. It beeped anxiously at her, no doubt chiding her for her recklessness, and the girl laughed, too relieved to care.

The Omnic, its cybernetic hands now lightly placed against the girl’s back, securing her as it moved to face them, nodded gratefully, acknowledging what they’d done, though Hanzo felt compelled to insist that Genji, and not him, had been responsible for its recovery, but Genji headed him off by accepting the Omnic’s thanks with a subtle bow. He wished the duo well before motioning for Hanzo to do the same. 

Even knowing he would not be understood, that none of his questions would find their answers here, he searched for the right words to part on, before deciding a simple handshake would suffice. 

Once his quiver and bow were back in their rightful place upon his back, he extended a hand to the duo. The girl stared at the open, calloused palm for a moment, then latched onto it with both of her hands, pumping it vigorously as she met the archer’s perplexed frown with a brilliant smile.

She then surprised them both by shouting, “Thank you!” at the top of her lungs as they exited the alley, earning a chuckle from Genji, who commented that they should not have been so surprised. Despite its past misfortunes, India was still rife with tourism. And children were better listeners than most were inclined to admit. 

Once they’d successfully mingled with the crowd, Genji pitched his voice low in a mimicry of Hanzo’s. “Think back on this pain.” He tilted back his head in a hollow laugh. “You’re so cool, _anija_.”

“Have you been following me, then?” Hanzo asked levelly. With his temper as it was, he was striving to refrain from hastily jumping to conclusions, but found doing so especially difficult when no other explanations for his brother’s sudden appearance readily presented themselves. Certainly, with his body as it was, he had not come to the marketplace for the food. 

“Actually, Overwatch received an alert detailing an armed Japanese man walking the streets. I volunteered to look into it.” He trailed off into a contemplative hum. Several minutes later, he suddenly asked, “Why did you enter that alley, anyway? In what way did defending that little girl and her Omnic benefit you?”

One of the bolder merchants approached them with a bonsai in a clay pot, casting an admiring glance at Genji’s sleek form as he did so. The realization that the vendors believed Genji to be a newer model of Omnic, one which he had procured through wealth and means, brought with it an acid taste in Hanzo's mouth. At his side, Genji was still waiting for an answer, heedless of the attention. At long last, Hanzo relented. “To raise arms against the weak is dishonorable. To do so against a child is deplorable. I had no need of any further reason to intervene than that.” 

The cyborg cocked his head to the side, as though struggling to comprehend, but Hanzo could sense that he was merely being facetious. It was a gesture easily associated with his brother, even if the appearance behind it jarred against memory. “So, you went out of your way to help a little girl and an Omnic you didn’t even know? And for no other reason than because it was the right thing to do?” It wasn’t hard to see where this was going. Hanzo’s growing scowl unintentionally scared off another vendor. “But you’re right, _anija_.” Of all the things he’d missed about his brother, his penchant for sarcasm was not among them. “You’re definitely not Overwatch material. I don’t know why I even offered.” 

Hearing that, Hanzo realized that he could never confess to the fact that the entire reason for his passing through India was to find transportation into Nepal, so that he could take Genji up on the challenge he’d issued in Hanamura. It, like many, was a secret that would die with him. 

As the crowds faded, Genji fixed Hanzo, who’d remained stubbornly silent for some time, with a penetrating sidelong stare. “You’re here because you want to join, aren’t you?”

Rather than confirm his suspicions, Hanzo pretended to seriously consider trading his _Omnic_ for eight, healthy chickens.

“ _Anija!_ ” Genji chided him sharply. “ I am worth at least ten chickens.”


	9. to save the sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoji - rice paper doors
> 
> kumicho - leader of the yakuza
> 
> tamago - egg
> 
> seiza - kneeling position

The gardens of Hanamura were known throughout the village for their unearthly beauty. In the spring, cherry blossoms carpeted the tiled paths with delicate white petals. They slipped through the cracks in windows and under doors, saturating the Shimada’s castle with a subtly sweet scent. It seeped into their fabric, their sheets and pillows. And as such, became inextricably linked with the memory of home. 

When Hanzo woke that morning, it was to a scent so familiar and strangely present that he could not dismiss it as the remnants of a dream. There were other oddities as well, besides the uncomfortable tickling sensation stemming from the feather-light weight sitting upon the tip of his nose. 

The mattress beneath him was too thick. It did not creak as he moved, as the thin cots at Watchpoint were wont to do. The sheets wrapped around his person didn’t crinkle with the rise and fall of his chest, made too stiff after an excessive helping of starch. They were smooth, and softer than the finest silk crafted by the best artisans in Japan. 

Wherever he was waking now, it was not his quarters in Overwatch. Had someone moved him? Had he been drugged? Or was he actually still lying asleep in his bed, convinced of his wakefulness while he continued to dream?

Slowly, so as not to disturb it, he enclosed a hand over the weight upon his nose, then opened his eyes to see the wrinkled pink and white edges of the _sakura_. Opening his palm, he watched as the slight draft in his room carried it away, pulling it towards the open window at his bedside. 

Bare feet hit a solid wooden floor that smelled of pine and cedar. The robes draped loosely around him slipped from his shoulders as he stood, and as he paused to adjust them, his hands found lean edges and sharp angles where once there had been compact muscle, earned from a decade of practice and a life perpetually on the run. 

He slid open the wooden _shoji_ frames, the intricate ink designs staining the translucent paper in arcs and whirls striking a nostalgic chord within him, along with a thrill of fear that expanded exponentially at the sight beyond the porch. Fog hung like a veil over shrubs, bushes, and low hanging branches of the tall trees that couldn’t quite rise high enough to shut out the view of the village below. Its inhabitants were already awake. Hanzo could make out their profiles from where he stood, and though the details of their features escaped his sight, he could name a man by his limp, a woman by the way she fashioned her hair into a lopsided bun. He had burned their names and faces into his memory long ago. 

But how was it that he looked upon them now? 

Dread already pooling in his stomach, heavy and ice cold, Hanzo reached behind him. His knuckles lightly brushed against a curtain of meticulously groomed black hair cascading over his white robes and down his back. 

Though he had been raised to aspire to the way of the _shinobi_ , it was the samurai’s Bushido that had awed him as a child. They wore their hair long to symbolize their strength of character, and also as a symbol of their skill, for samurai, when they fell into disgrace or suffered a humiliating defeat, were expected to slice off their topknot to symbolize their lower status. 

Hanzo could not say for certain if his attraction to their customs could have been his own small rebellion against the life that had been chosen for him, but he had always maintained the length and quality of his hair as he reached adulthood. It had been a point of pride. 

But he had not worn it so long since…

 _“Anija!”_ He spun around in time to see his younger brother march into the room, an unpleasant twist to his mouth already present before either of them had exchanged a word. There was a patch of green grass growing atop his head, something Hanzo realized belatedly was actually the spiked hairstyle he’d dyed shortly before their father’s death. Genji looked him up and down, bemused by his undressed state, though his general demeanor remained cold. “Akemi-san asked me to come wake you. It’s time for breakfast.”

Hanzo stared, mouth agape and utterly speechless. There was a light flush to his brother’s cheeks – he might have already gone for a run that morning. It made sense. Genji could never stand to remain within the walls of the Shimada clan’s headquarters for longer than he could help it. He was always finding excuses to leave. 

His thick, dark brows, furrowed due to his continued silence, and strong chin were from their father, but there was a softness to his gaze that Hanzo knew he had inherited from their mother. It was because of their resemblance, in both appearance and personality, that their father had always found it fit to dote on him. 

“Hanzo?” Seeing the first hints of concern begin to steadily overwrite the weeks and months of earned resentment Genji harbored for him, Hanzo forced himself to nod, anything to stave off a worry he did not deserve from the whole and healthy younger brother whose body he’d once destroyed, and with the very hands that now shook at his sides.

Swallowing hard, Hanzo managed, “Your hair…” Instantly, Genji was on guard again. 

“Again? How long are you going to be on my case about it, Hanzo? Can’t you just-”

“It suits you.” 

For a time, Genji’s mouth continued to move without producing any sound, until finally the shock subsided enough for him to string a single word together. “What?”

At his utter bewilderment, Hanzo almost smiled. “You heard me.” He crossed the room to flick his little brother’s forehead protector, now convinced that he was dreaming. And that, for once, the dream was not a nightmare. “Don’t cover it up today. I’d like to see it.”

Genji fiddled with the metal guard, straightening it, before taking it off entirely. At that, Hanzo smiled gently. He hadn’t forgotten how much he missed this sight, not for an instant. But seeing his little brother’s boyish features again brought such a bittersweet relief that his throat and eyes itched uncomfortably. He stepped back, ducked his head, and coughed, hoping that would be enough to divert his brother’s suspicions. 

It wasn’t. “Are you feeling alright?” How long had they been estranged at this point? How many harsh words had he thrown at him? Yet, even still…

Hanzo looked up to meet Genji’s anxious gaze, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Okay,” Genji said, dropping the issue with visible reluctance. Had they been on better terms, he might have pursued it, but Hanzo imagined Genji was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. If this dream was taking place when it appeared to be, then they could rarely even hold a conversation without it devolving into vitriol, years of repressed anger bubbling to the surface with every heated exchange. 

While they walked to the dining room, where Akemi had arranged for them a breakfast of rice and _tamago_ – a meal which usually wouldn’t require her complete focus, but Hanzo supposed she’d sent Genji to wake him in the hopes that they would relearn how to behave civilly towards each other – Genji mentioned that he would be going out with friends, and that he wouldn’t be home until later that night.

Having been in the middle of pulling out a chair at the long table to sit, Hanzo sat a little heavily in his seat, unable to completely mask his surprise. He could not remember the last time Genji had shared with him his plans or the company he kept. Usually, he left without a word, returning when it pleased him. 

Genji, mistaking the silence for dissatisfaction, dug into his rice with a moody violence, clearly thinking his older brother’s softening towards him had been some manner of illusion or a brief leave of his senses. He continued to quietly stab his meal until Hanzo said, “That is fine.”

Chopsticks hovering above his bowl, forgotten, Genji sputtered, “Are you sure? We have training later, and you’ve kind of been on my case about it ever since,” Hanzo noticeably flinched. Genji abruptly changed gears, “ever since I can remember.” 

“You were planning to skip, anyways, correct? I will get one of our retainers to train with me tonight.”

There was a bounce to Genji’s step when they cleared the dishes, then offered them to the Shimada’s kitchen staff to wash and dry while they set about planning the rest of their day. Hanzo, for his part, knew that he could not spend the rest of the day in his sleep garments. 

Before they left to go their separate ways, Akemi, a middle-aged woman with a red-streaked bob, exited from the kitchens and hailed them. She tended to personally craft the majority of their meals, as she’d worked for the Shimada clan since her adolescence and thus knew their individual preferences well. “Hanzo!”

He paused, allowing her to catch up. Upon glimpsing the friendly smile she offered them, he fought down a wave of shame. What happened to those who worked for the Shimada after he abandoned the clan? Did Akemi still smile like this now?

Struggling to keep the strain out of his voice, he returned her greeting, listening politely when she explained that the Elders wanted to meet with him. 

Catching his eye, Genji offered a helpless shrug. Then he noticed that the color had suddenly abandoned Hanzo’s face, leaving him pale and lightheaded. He felt as though he would sway if he moved, would certainly fall. 

Beside him, Genji loudly cleared his throat. “I think I’ll stick around, after all.” He winked at Akemi to distract from the hand he’d laid on Hanzo’s arm to steady him. “It’s not everyday I get to have lunch with my older brother, right?”

Clapping her hands in the excitement and relief that came with seeing the brothers finally getting along, Akemi darted back into the kitchens to arrange for a very special assortment of raw fish and sake for the two.

Though Genji didn’t ask, there were questions in the grip that tightened at her departure. 

Without a word, Hanzo jerked away from his touch, then disappeared into his room to find a suitable outfit for his confrontation with the Elders. 

He now knew exactly which day this was.

 

“You must bring your younger brother to heel, Hanzo.” He gritted his teeth, chafing in the _seiza_ position. It was a gesture of a respect these men and women looking down on him might have once deserved, but no longer. “The other clans will view his persistent disobedience as your weakness.” How had he once silently endured this poison without question? 

His hands, sitting on his knees, curled into fists. Why had he trusted them? Why had he feared them? 

Why hadn’t he disobeyed?

“Every man has a weakness.” The Elders quieted. They had not granted leave for him to speak, but Hanzo was not the child he had once been. He did not require their permission, nor did he yearn for their approval. “Forgive my impertinence, Elders, but with all your great wisdom, how can you believe otherwise?” He raised his head, defiant. “What better way to protect mine than to choose it myself? A weakness I am not aware of can easily be used against me, but a weakness of my own choosing? Would that not be preferred?”

“If you choose to allow your brother to run wild,” an older woman’s voice interjected. Hanzo stared into the dim lighting of the Elder’s quarters to spot the white bun she’d wrapped her hair in as she continued,” as your father once did, then the strength of your leadership will come into question.”

“I have no need for allies who are so easily swayed.” 

The main speaker, a frail, severe old man, narrowed his eyes dangerously at Hanzo’s confident response, “We have told you what is expected of you, what you must do to secure your place at the head of this clan.”

“And I will take your words under advisement.” Impatient to leave, Hanzo climbed to feet. It served the duel purpose of underlining the point he’d tried to convey – the Elders needed to remember that, however young he was, it was him, and not they, who ruled the clan. 

When he was at the door, Hanzo heard the Elder who’d been most adamant that he corral his younger brother say, “Do you truly wish to start your reign by making an enemy of your council?”

Gripping the frame until it bit into his palm, Hanzo fired back, “And you? Do you truly wish to start the reign of a new _kumicho_ by becoming his enemy?”

He stalked out of the room without turning back, nearly running into Genji, who’d been waiting directly outside the room the entire time. His eyes were large, round and frightened. He took Hanzo aside, maintaining physical contact in a way that suggested a very real fear that his brother would vanish in front of him if he didn’t. “What’s gotten into you, _anija?_ The Elders have ordered the deaths of other clansmen for less!”

Gently, Hanzo tried to pry him off. It proved to be a difficult task. “I will be fine, Genji. Not even the Elders would kill the eldest son of the Shimada clan.” 

Glancing nervously to the side, he still didn’t look convinced. “Maybe I should stay here tonight. Keep an eye on things, just in case.”

Abruptly, Hanzo felt sick to his stomach. He shook his head, insisted that Genji should spend the night with his friends, as he had planned. 

Eventually, Genji relented, and they parted on better terms than they had in ages. 

That night, Hanzo waited up in the shrine for his brother to return home, until the night turned into day and the day turned into weeks. He waited until they found his body in a ditch, decayed almost beyond recognition. The coroner reported the cause of death as an overdose, but he knew better than to believe the words of an official paid off by the clan. 

Even knowing his weakness, Hanzo had been powerless to protect it.

 

_let me have this dream_

 

 _“Anija!”_ Hanzo’s eyes shot open to see his brother hovering over him. “Didn’t peg you for a deep sleeper, Hanzo.” Genji’s smile was smug, like it was a victory to catch his brother in a state of imperfection. 

This interaction went much the same way as the first, except Hanzo was quicker in his responses, determined to start the day without the discrepancies of the first. Still, he couldn’t help but compliment Genji’s hairstyle, if only because the urge to see again the startled smile that had curved his mouth and crinkled his eyes was too great to resist. 

He was not cold to his brother during breakfast, but not overly affectionate either, answering Genji’s announcement of his evening plans with a noncommittal grunt. This time, his brother did not wait outside the doors when he spoke with the Elders. 

His legs ached from being in the _seiza_ position for so long as they repeatedly drilled into him the importance of reining in Genji’s frivolity and spending. “He cannot be allowed to continue squandering our goodwill,” the old man from before told him, as severe as ever.

“Then let him leave.” The words were out before Hanzo had the chance to consider whether saying them would be wise. Judging from the sudden silence that draped over the room, it wasn’t. 

“Has he expressed that wish to you?” It was the wizened woman in the back, staring thoughtfully down at Hanzo with sunken eyes that appeared black and predatory in the paltry light. 

“No,” Hanzo amended quickly, hoping against hope that they would let this drop. “It was merely a suggestion.”

When night approached, he rushed to the shrine to await his brother's return, fully intending to enter the village and retrieve him by the scruff of his ridiculous green head if he didn’t show up in an hour. But he did. 

He ran up the steps, past the columns, looking giddy and flushed. He waved upon seeing his brother waiting for him, believing the grim scowl adorning his features to be Hanzo's default setting when he missed training. Thus, he didn’t think much of it until Hanzo, mirroring Genji’s own actions following his first disastrous meeting with the Elders, took him by the shoulders, and told him to leave. 

Genji blinked dumbly, certain he hadn’t heard him correctly. “You’re not actually asking me to leave, are you?” 

“There is nothing for you here, Genji.”

“First you try to force me to be more involved with the family, and now you’re trying to chase me away?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “I guess I should have seen this coming.”

He tried to push Hanzo away, but the archer held him fast, desperation making him strong. “No! That’s not what I’m trying to do. But it’s too dangerous for you here.” He willed him to understand. “If you run, you will be chased, but if you stay here, you will die.” Even losing him to Overwatch would be preferable to that. 

Though he still didn’t know where this urgency was coming from, the truth in Hanzo’s words was unmistakable. Always knowing exactly when his brother was lying had been a point of pride for Genji when they were younger. He sighed, running a hand through the loose strands of his hair. “Okay. Let’s say I believe you – what will happen to you? If they find out you let me escape…” He wrestled with himself, before gripping Hanzo's shoulders in return and blurting, “Come with me.” 

He looked like he couldn’t believe what he’d just said, but didn’t recant on the offer, and Hanzo entertained the idea for a moment, thinking of a life on the run together, of maybe learning how to be brothers again. But someone had to stay behind to stall the assassins, maybe even keep them from ever hunting Genji if he could. Being the heir and rising _kumicho_ had to count for something. 

He could read the rejection, the hurt in his brother’s eyes when he pulled away, shaking his head. Even in a dream, there were things he could not have. “I’m so-“ 

There was a sound like something being thrown at a high-speed, and then Genji was torn from him by the arrow embedding itself in his chest. He stumbled back against a wooden column, gaping silently as the blood began to flow freely over his shirt. 

When he began to slide, Hanzo lurched forward to catch him, pulled him close until his head lolled against his chest and then watched in anguish as the light left his eyes. He screamed for a doctor, for Mercy, for anyone to come and save his brother, but only the assassin in the rafters listened. Only he heard.

And then he was gone to report the completion of his mission.

And Hanzo was alone.

 

_let me have this dream_

 

 _“Anija?”_ Hanzo woke with a telling wetness still tracking his cheeks. He sat up to see Genji standing at the foot of his bed, a soft look gracing his boyish features. Looking away, he awkwardly cleared his throat. “I miss him, too.”

Vulnerable. That was how Genji looked, standing there, waiting for his answer, but Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to respond in kind. “I will be out in a minute, Genji.” He wiped the streaks away with the back of his hand, then threw his legs over the side of his bed, staring determinedly at the wall as he said, “Do not wait for me.” 

It was a clear dismissal, and Genji stormed out without another word, his emotions always running unchecked and rampant.

Once the sliding doors were yanked shut behind him, with a force that made their frames shudder, Hanzo leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. 

By the time he was dressed, Genji was already gone. It was exactly as it had been the first time he’d lived through this cursed day. 

He ate his rice slowly, thanking Akemi with the cool politeness that was expected of him when she left the kitchen to inform him that the Elders desired his presence. Her cheer was dampened somewhat, but there was no way to tell her that what happened between him and Genji wasn’t her fault, that their relationship had started breaking down long ago, little by little, and too slowly for him to notice until they couldn’t look at each other without seeing the other’s faults and little else. 

He had been Genji’s hero, once. He had not forgotten. There were times when he would wonder why that had changed, but now he knew. Their battle in the temple did not mark the first time he had chosen the clan over his brother. It was merely the culmination of a lifetime’s worth of poor decisions. 

Genji had left him to shoulder every burden alone – the clan, the Elders, the welfare of the village, and the arrangements for their father’s funeral. And he had resented him for it. But when had Hanzo ever reached out to him? He’d worn his duty and sense of honor like spiked armor to keep anyone from getting close enough to touch. He’d shut Genji out. 

Was it any wonder that when their father had died, he’d tried to find solace and belonging outside the family? What reason had Hanzo given him to stay?

But he kept those thoughts to himself as he wished Akemi well. It would all be over soon. 

When the Elders asked him to control his brother, he did not interrupt or argue. He repeated words in the dark that he’d thought he’d never have to say again. They ate at him from the inside, corroding his stomach, eating through his tongue before finally falling from his lips in the form of a strained whisper. 

He kept his head low when he promised to bring him back to the fold, then waited for their dismissal, before crossing the floor in steady, unhurried steps until he was past the exit and free of their watchful gaze. 

He sank against the wall, biting hard on his lower lip to force the anguished cry rising within him back down.

He’d done it, hadn’t he? The Elders would not suspect any defiance from him, but that did not mean he could lower his guard. The assassin in the rafters could still be there, with orders to act if he reneged on his word to persuade Genji to begin behaving in a manner befitting of a Shimada.

As long as Genji was expendable, he would always be in danger. That was what his experiences had taught him.

Swallowing back the bile rising in his gorge, Hanzo pushed off the wall, composed himself, then strode purposefully towards his room. There was still some time before Genji would return, before his hands would be forced to once more hold a sword. 

Until that time, he would rest beneath the cherry blossoms, and watch as the villagers went blissfully about their lives.

 

“Hanzo!” Their blades met and scraped and slid beneath temple’s high ceiling. The scroll, unbloodied still, seemed to mock and taunt, as though it were merely waiting to be drenched in a shower of Genji’s blood once more. And Genji was shouting at him, had been shouting since Hanzo first ran at him with a gleaming weapon in his hands. “Talk to me, Hanzo! What’s going on?!”

It had to look real. 

But he hated it. He hated the blade with a ferocity that burned in his chest, hated hearing his little brother, panicked and confused, beg him to stop his assault. 

Genji followed the arc of Hanzo’s strike, allowing him to break the lock. He sprinted to the side, putting distance between them as he continued to try and talk him down. Hanzo hesitated in his pursuit, reluctant to press him, knowing he had to if this was going to work. He couldn’t afford to waver in his resolve, not if Genji was going to live. “You have to fight me, Genji.” It should have come out biting, scornful. It had once. “Stay your blade now and you will die.” 

Now, however, weariness, fatigue, and a bone-deep sadness weighed him down. When Genji spoke, it was quiet and measured and calm, as though he were speaking to an injured, frightened creature. “I will never fight you.”

Hanzo bowed his head. “You are a disgrace to the clan, Genji.” He pretended not to hear the catch in his voice as he struggled to keep up the pretense. He stared up at Genji, looking for all the world like he was seeing him for the last time. “You are nothing.” 

That was wrong. Genji was so much more than he would ever be. There was so much good he could do, if only he had the time. Compared to that, what worth could the disgraced heir to a criminal empire possibly have?

And Genji could always read him best, prided himself on it, but the signals Hanzo was sending were purposefully conflicting. It was enough to force him to stop thinking, to rely on instinct when Hanzo charged his position. The resulting clash unleashed a unearthly shriek from their blades. It resembled the tortured cry of a dragon. 

To Genji’s horror, his spirit reacted to the perceived peril, and acted on its own initiative to surround and empower his blade, “Hanzo,”Genji begged, becoming frantic when he couldn’t stop it, “wait!”

But Hanzo had been waiting for this. He took one hand off the hilt of his own weapon, grabbed the katana by its edge, and then plunged it through his chest. 

He smiled as the cold fire cut through him, and before Genji could react, snatched the shuriken from his waist, aiming them at the spot in the rafters where the trajectory of the assassin’s arrow had revealed their location to be. 

A strangled, gurgling cry was preceded by the body of the assassin falling limply from the ceiling. If the fall didn’t kill them, then the blood loss from the gash in their throat surely would. At the sight, Hanzo’s disturbingly serene smile grew. “They’ll have no choice but to accept you now.” Now, if Genji chose to abandon the clan and find his own path in life, the Elders would have to send assassins after the only heir left to the Shimada. It wasn’t much, but Hanzo had survived it. As long as Genji could live past this night, he was certain he could make it through. 

Genji ignored him, too focused on lowering him to the ground and removing the blade penetrating his torso without injuring him any further to register anything else. “Hold on, Hanzo, I’ll get you help!”

Hanzo’s hand lashed out when he turned to leave, circling around his wrist like a shackle. “Don’t!” He wheezed. He’d just killed one of their own. The Elders would not treat such a transgression lightly, not even from the heir. “I’ll be okay. I just need you to promise me that you’ll leave this place.”

The look he received in response was one of utter disbelief. When Genji spoke, however, it was with the lost voice of a child. “But where could I go? Anyone who takes me into their home will be in danger now.”

For the first time, Hanzo questioned his decision, but something told him he wasn’t going to be getting another shot at this. After sucking in a ragged breath - dragging air into his lungs was taking an increasing amount of effort with each passing second - he squeezed Genji’s hand. “Go to Overwatch.” He'd planned for this exact question. “Tell them you’ll do everything you can to bring down the Shimada.” A rueful chuckle escaped him. “I’m sure you can think of a reason why.” Even Genji laughed a little. They were both sitting on the floor now, with Genji cradling Hanzo’s head against his arm. He’d torn off part of his scarf to wrap around the wound. It wouldn’t be enough. “And then… when you’re ready... go to Nepal.” He allowed his eyes to slip closed in order to focus his remaining energy on gathering the thoughts in his mind before the fragments they were breaking into could scatter beyond his reach. “You’ll meet someone there… who can help you.” 

Something shifted in Genji, then. He stiffened. Hanzo forced his eyes open to see a look of dawning realization pass over him, but more telling was the hard edge of experience now present in his gaze, experience that could only be gained through introspection and pain. “No, this isn’t right,” he muttered, voice rising. “This isn’t what happened.” He stared at the red stain spreading through his scarf as though seeing it for the first time. “Hanzo, I’m so sorry!” He pressed against the wound to stem the flow, instinctively trying to save him. “This is all wrong!”

Hanzo didn’t want to speak anymore. He wanted to close his eyes, to rest knowing that, even if this wasn’t real and the waking world would not change, there was one dream, at least, in which he had saved his brother. 

But Genji was still desperately calling for him. It all seemed so uncomfortably familiar, but with his mind fading, it took some time to pinpoint the cause. He laid a calloused palm on Genji’s cheek, before rasping, “This was how I felt… when it was you lying here.”

Gradually, his vision narrowed to single point of a white, the sound of Genji calling for him becoming distant and muffled, but despite it all, Hanzo could not remember a time when he had felt more at peace...

 

Hana slammed the decanter from the coffee maker down on the kitchen table. “What’s wrong with you two?” She plopped her fists on her hips, staring crossly at each of the Shimada brothers who were slumping in their seats, already exhausted despite having overslept that morning. “You both look like something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and spat out.”

“I had a terrible dream last night,” Genji groaned through the hands on which his visor rested.

“Really?” Though aware of the dark smudges beneath his eyes, Hanzo made the effort to casually take a bite of his pancakes. “Mine was not so bad.”

With an irritated roll of his shoulders, Genji lifted his head to fix him with what was unquestionably a dirty look, then snatched the plate of pancakes out from directly under Hanzo’s fork.


	10. Ghost - part 2

It took Winston remotely piloting a compact jet to the signal sent out by Genji’s communicator, followed by eight hours of uninterrupted flight over cities and an endless ocean before Hanzo was finally brought into Angela’s care. McCree and Morrison helped him carry his brother inside the clinic, where they deposited him on a cot, careful not to jostle his prosthetic limbs too much. 

Mercy got to work immediately, pushing them brusquely them out of the way with power cables in her hands. She set them aside while she worked on unlatching Hanzo’s exterior chestplate, then inserted them into the port hidden beneath. His visor flared at the input of energy from the generator, and his breathing evened as the vents and other basic life functions came back online. 

His back arched, synthetic and organic muscles seizing. The sudden intake of oxygen was a shock to his system after suffocating in silence for so long. It would take time for the neurons firing off death knells in his brain to change their tune. Mercy ordered Morrison and McCree to hold him down until the convulsions passed.

When the thrashing dwindled to little more than a persistent twitch, an encouraging indictor that the cyborg’s body had finally begun to recognize its release from its perpetual loop of death and life, the cowboy and the soldier slowly withdrew to allow Hanzo some space to maneuver. They didn’t go far.

Morrison studied the calculating manner in which Hanzo examined his newly mobile limbs through the red lens of his visor. 

Mercy turned to Genji, who’d been content to watch the life reenter his brother in silence, so long as he never had to hear the terrible rattle of his dying breaths again, for as long as he lived. “You said in your report that Reaper deactivated his body with a remote?” Her voice was thick with a rage that simmered beneath the surface at such a flagrant abuse of her technology, a technology that she had built to help and _save_. 

Without a word, Genji nodded, confirming her suspicions.

Dipping his head, Hanzo laid a heavy palm over the cord protruding from his chest. At the questioning tilt of his head, Mercy pushed her own feelings aside, and calmly explained that the generator was a temporary fix intended to keep his vitals stable until she could procure a more permanent power source for him. “One outside of Talon’s control.” Against her better judgment, she placed a hand over his, interlocking her slender fingers between the cold metal spikes protruding from the plates positioned over his knuckles. 

He did not pull away from her touch, nor did he respond to it. Rather, he endured with seemingly cold indifference until she pulled away on her own accord.

When she leaned over his chest to examine the structure of his lower jaw and neck, and perhaps to form an idea of what could be done to mitigate the effects of the self-inflicted damage that seemed to be limiting the archer’s vocalizations, Genji forgot to breath. He’d never dared to lift Hanzo’s veil, both out of respect for his privacy and due to the simple fact that his brother had been in no state to refuse. 

Now, however, Mercy intentionally hesitated. Her intentions were clear – hands raised, hovering just above the carbon fiber. 

And Hanzo watched her, unmoving, until finally permission was granted by a slight nod, and she moved forward, lifting the veil away to reveal the ruin beneath it. There was a gruesome gash following up his jawline, revealing sinew and bone, each blackened by the organic material’s advanced decay. 

A curling black mist formed at the edges of the disfiguring wound with an insectile clicking. It passed easily through the gaping holes eaten through his cheeks, aiding in the endless cycle of regeneration and degeneration that Mercy recognized as a bastardized form of the Caduceus procedure.

There was evidence of extensive deterioration in the walls of his mouth and throat, more than enough to warrant a vocal synthesizer, even disregarding the mangled remains of the tongue he’d chewed through. Upon catching a glimpse of it, Mercy suppressed a shudder. Was it the crippling pain that had pushed him to go so far? Was it defiance? Or was it shame?

She glanced at Genji, wondering how he was taking this. His cybernetic body stood rigidly by the doorframe, fists curled at his sides. His gaze was locked on his brother, who shifted slightly to acknowledge his presence for the first time. 

With deliberate slowness, Hanzo reached up to remove his visor. His fingers fumbled with the clasps, clumsy and sluggish due the lingering effects of oxygen deprivation, so Mercy, after laying a gentle touch on his forearm to alert him to her intentions, helped him find and undo the latches.

They had not interacted often before his abduction, many of their brief conversations had been tense and charged at best, but she knew him to be a proud creature, and so refused to force her aid upon him. Enough had been forced upon him, already.

Still, she was surprised when he accepted her assistance, and the visor released, vapor streaming out from its edges. The azure ventilation ports built into his shoulders raised to expel puffs of excess carbon dioxide, an occurrence usually brought about by exertion or stress, as the archer gripped the visor in one hand, and then lifted it, revealing the streaks of white scarring surrounding his eyes and cutting through his brow. 

His dark brown eyes, so similar to his brother’s, were at first hard and cold, utterly devoid of any traces of humanity or emotion, except for perhaps the remnants of a long buried rage. 

Despite the intensity of a gaze Genji could not bring himself to associate with the man he knew, the ninja took a step forward, venturing, “Hanzo?”

And Hanzo forced his eyes closed, squeezing them tightly. Genji hesitated, a sudden dread filling him at the thought that his brother might blame him for not finding him before this transformation could occur, that the ninja was even now finding some sort of vindictive pleasure in it, though that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

He strived for calm, for the tranquility of his master. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he offered to leave. The thought of leaving now, after having searched for him for so long, it tore like daggers slicing through him, but if that was what his brother wished…

To his surprise, Hanzo opened his eyes, revealing a drastically softened gaze. He gestured for Genji to come closer, and the cyborg did not need any further prodding. He was instantly at Hanzo’s side. 

Suppressing a smile, Mercy stepped out to head into her office, stating that she’d be back with a few extra chairs and something that might be able to help expand Hanzo’s limited communication. Genji, especially, needed to rest. His cybernetic body could withstand much, but there was no doubt that the past few hours had pushed both his body and his mind to their limits. 

“Guess you need to work a little on that mug of yours, Hanzo,” McCree observed. “Poor Genji here nearly had a heart attack.” For a moment, Hanzo regarded the cowboy in silence, then he nodded, and proceeded to adjust the veil so it laid properly over his wounds. Genji turned, his visor flaring to an unsettling brightness, and McCree couldn’t see the dark look the cyborg was fixing him with, but he could feel it. “Now, look,” he quickly backtracked, “I didn’t mean-“

He sighed, breaking off with a sideways glance and a nervous scratch at the back of his neck. “Apologies, archer. I guess seeing you again after all this time, knowing where you’ve been, it’s got me a bit on edge.” 

“It’s got us all a bit on edge,” Morrison agreed. “You don’t spend a year with Talon and not come back carrying some of it with you.” He glanced pointedly at the blade Hanzo reportedly wielded against his brother, a weapon that now rested by the nightstand.

Hanzo moved to reattach his visor, stopping only when Genji laid a metal hand over his. He slowly shook his head, a silent bid for more time. While Genji understood if Hanzo was uncomfortable without it, and would not stop should he insist, he was not repulsed by Hanzo’s appearance, nor was he afraid of him. It was important that he know that. “When I was in America, there was a time when Hanzo could have killed me, yet he stayed his hand. Soon after, he defied Talon, despite undoubted awareness of the consequences which awaited him should he do so. Think what you will, but I choose to trust him.” 

Mercy returned with a compact cube, unfolded a chair for Genji, then placed her own on the opposite side of the cot, where she could best reach her patient. 

The instant Genji shifted to sit, however, the visor was snapped back into place, the azure band concealing any reaction Hanzo might have had to the device Mercy presented to him. And though Genji visibly deflated, Mercy didn’t let her patient’s stubbornness faze her. She’d grown a thick skin after years of patching up the toughest heroes in Overwatch. “It’s a synthetic voice box. It senses the vibrations in your throat, and then translates them into words.” Though they could no longer see his eyes, the curious head tilt with which Hanzo regarded the metal cube could only be described as skeptical. She held it out so he could get a better look. “With your permission, of course, I’d like to attach this to your neck. It’s already been activated, and the processing period will just take a second.”

She waited under the intensity of his unwavering gaze, recalling Genji’s first days in Overwatch, when he had lashed out at anyone who got too close, refused any further enhancements until time and necessity had forced him to accept her aid. It had been a grueling experience, and certainly not one she was eager on repeating, but if that was what it took, then so be it. 

Finally, Hanzo lifted two fingers and pressed them to his throat. And she got to work, attaching wires where she could, wrapping straps around the base of his neck, an act which noticeably made the archer tense, and then clipped on the cube so that it fit snugly against the sloping armor. 

He touched it tentatively, adjusting to its weight and the minor audio feedback. There was a hint of awe and disbelief to the gesture, as though the experience of sitting in a room that smelled of astringent with someone who genuinely wanted to help him was nothing less than a miracle. 

Morrison crossed his arms over his chest. “Can you speak, Hanzo?”

Still somewhat dazed, he turned to face the Commander. They all did. Mercy and Genji had nearly forgotten the audience in the room. At first, unintelligible static issued from the box. Before it had the chance to completely settle, a flat, artificially generated, “Yes,” was heard. It bore no resemblance to the archer’s natural voice, and was instead generically male, replacing Hanzo’s cool, accented baritone with something akin to what one would expect to hear from an automated navigation system. 

Genji straightened at the sound. Hanzo, on the other hand, went very and disconcertingly still. Mercy offered them both an apologetic frown. “The device hasn’t been calibrated to Hanzo’s specific tones. It’s a prototype, and a very old model at that. I can build a new one, like the one I built for Genji, but it will take some time.” Absently, she tucked several loose strands from her bun behind an ear. “Do you think you could accept this for a few days?”

It was a little disappointing when Hanzo merely nodded, as it seemed to indicate that he would accept its presence without making use of it, but then Morrison approached the bed with a grim set to his brow. “If using that thing embarrasses you, then you’re gonna have to get over that real quick. I’m going to need you to recall for me every last second of the time you spent with Talon.”

“Morrison,” Genji warned.

While McCree, sensing the rising tensions, asked for everyone to take a deep breath and bring it down a notch, Mercy gestured stiffly for Morrison to step outside with her. 

He opened the door, allowing her to step out into the hallway first, where she waited impatiently for him to join her. It had barely closed behind him when she hissed, “What are you trying to do in there? He needs rest, Jack. Not an interrogation.”

“We don’t know what was done to him or how much time we have to figure it out, Angela.” 

“Then what would you have us do? Toss him out into the streets?” She’s always been a bear when it came to protecting her patients, it’s part and parcel with what made her such a good doctor, but it wasn't everyday that Morrison found himself bearing the brunt of her ire like this. 

“If it comes to that.” He’d expected that betrayal that bloomed in her clear blue eyes, but not the hurt that stabbed through him when he saw it. 

But Mercy wasn’t the girl she’d once been. In a blink, the emotion vanished, replaced by a coldness that only accented her angelic beauty. So many had seen the healer descend from the sky with a kind smile and wings that gleamed gold in the sunlight. They would never witness the warrior adorned in little more than plain clothes and a lab coat that stood before him now, “And do you truly believe Genji would agree with that course of action?”

Unable to maintain her gaze any longer, Morrison glanced to the side, a gloved hand rising automatically to rest on the back of his head. “He’ll understand. He’s-“

“A good soldier?” He turned sharply, drawn back to the doctor by the venomous edge to her words. Something told him he wasn’t going to like where she was taking this. “Yes, it’s a good idea, Jack. Very pragmatic. Gabriel would be _proud_.”

Frustration. Bitterness. Disappointment.

It wouldn’t be the first time his mistakes had come back to bite him. 

Resisting the urge to say whatever it took to defuse the situation - How many messes had _that_ caused in the past? - Morrison shook his head. “That’s not fair, Angela.” It wasn’t easy to see the little girl he’d watched grow into a woman carrying so much anger within her, especially not when he was the cause. 

She didn’t back down, didn’t let up. “And why not?” Her voice was level, coming across as all the more dangerous for it. “Do what needs to be done, and as for the people it hurts, the lives it ruins, well that’s just too bad, isn’t it?” Gradually, she relaxed, laying a tender hand on his forearm. “We have a real chance here to do some good, Jack. We can help this man. No. We can help our comrade. Even after all of this, he is still one of us. And I will _not_ abandon him.” 

Determination burned within her. There was a stubborn set to her shoulders, a defiant lift to her chin. She’d go down swinging, if that’s what it took. Morrison breathed out a gusty sigh, resigned to the fact that losing the archer at this point could very well mean losing both his brother and the best doctor they had. “You really do have a soft spot for the Shimadas, don't you?”

A soft smile graced her features. “Don’t waste this opportunity, Jack. This world cannot afford to lose any more heroes.”

 

“What do you think they’re talking about out there?” McCree let loose a low whistle at the harsh murmurs drifting in from outside. “Sounds to me like good ol’ Dr. Ziegler’s laying into him.”

He was slouching, leaning, resting. The desire to pull down the brim of his hat over his aching eyes and nap for a minute was proving to be more tempting than an apple pie cooling on a windowsill, and striking up a conversation with the toughest crowd in Overwatch wasn’t doing him any favors. Still, it wasn’t like he’d never gone without a good night’s sleep before, and it was well known in Overwatch that the best way to deal with fatigue was to cowboy up and deal with it. 

Taking in the unfathomable poker faces worn now by both of the Shimadas, McCree choked down a nervous chuckle. Putting that (admittedly unhealthy) plan into action was going to take some doing with these two wearing him down. Genji used to be pretty good at exaggerating his movements and what little vocal range he had to give the others something to bounce off of, but that was before he’d had to deal with the perpetual sucker punch of starting each new day with an older brother that was still MIA. 

It got worse with every false lead and dead end. He'd given up on exaggerating his tone, allowing the vocal synthesizer to render it flat and lifeless, and stopped mimicking human mannerisms, such as the rise and fall of a chest when its lungs fill and empty, often remaining immobile for hours when he wasn’t actively participating in missions or searching for the lost Shimada, and could easily be mistaken for a statue. Worst of all, any effort he’d once put into announcing his presence before entering a room dried up with the rest of the social niceties. He didn’t purposely step a little louder in the hallways to give the jumpier members of Overwatch a little warning, didn’t rap a few times on the doorframe to let everyone know when he was coming in, didn't greet them with a wave to purposefully draw attention to himself. 

Lately, whenever there was a meeting, Genji wasn’t there until he was, and no one rightly knew when that changed.

Losing Hanzo had hurt like a bullet train between the eyes, but so had losing Genji. He could only hope that now that the former was back, he’d be getting his friend back, too. 

“So,” he nudged the _katana_ sitting by the nightstand with the toe of his leather boot, “a blade, huh? What happened to your bow, archer?”

But that was only if Genji didn’t positively throttle him first. 

With a soft, nearly inaudible noise of pain that the device thankfully didn’t pick up on, Hanzo dug armored fingers into the edges of his mattress, then shifted to look in the direction where he’d gestured. He stared at the blade for a long time, shoulders hiked, before finally gathering the resolve to speak. “It was not by choice.” 

Genji looked as though he wanted to say something, but didn’t get the chance, as Morrison and Angela chose that moment to step back into the medbay. Morrison cleared his throat. “It’s been brought to my attention that you may need time to get readjusted, so we’ll be putting the questions on hold for a few days. However, during that time, I’ll be assigning either McCree or Genji to accompany you. You are not to go anywhere alone. Do I make myself clear, Shimada?”

McCree arched a brow at that. “Jesus, Jack, he’s not a criminal.”

Hanzo’s gaze shifted to him for an instant, before falling back to Morrison. “I believe the commander is correct. However, I cannot say that I am not grateful for the reprieve.” 

Once that was settled, Mercy ushered Morrison and McCree away to give the brothers some privacy. 

McCree, having decided that leaving on his own accord was better than leaving through a cowboy-shaped hole in the wall, bid them all a fond farewell, then followed Morrison out with his hands interlocked behind his head.

It’d been a long day. He’d check up on the brothers later but, for now, there was a bed in his quarters with his name on it. 

 

At their departure, Genji finally allowed his synthetic muscles to relax. He felt stiff, a remnant from the hours he’d spent hunched over the jet’s controls that wasn’t being helped by how still he’d remained during the majority of his visit to the medbay. 

The sheathed blade lying abandoned on the floor drew his attention when he looked down. As surreptitiously as he could manage, he kicked the weapon beneath the cot, banishing it from their sight. Perhaps later he would retrieve it, but for now, there was no reason for its presence to cause his brother any more pain. 

There was a short, clipped sound from the device resting on Hanzo’s throat. At first, Genji was not sure of what to make of it, before realizing that it was the synthesizer’s best attempt to mimic the amused huff that his brother was so fond of. “It’s a little too late for that, Genji.” In his mind’s eye, he could picture the wry smile that accompanied the words. “But I am glad to see you have not changed.”

How could he be so calm? 

Several minutes passed, during which neither of them could think anything to say to disrupt the oppressive atomosphere hanging over them. To recover their former relationship after a year apart did not seem so impossible a task in comparison to the wide gulf of ten, but they had never completely finished recovering from their first separation before they were forced into their second. 

After a time, Genji gestured vaguely to Hanzo's body. “Does it hurt?”

Hanzo sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes.” It came so quietly that the vocal synthesizer nearly didn’t register it. 

“And this, all of this, was a result of what their artificial Caduceus did to you?” And Genji was trying not to think about how satisfying it would be to storm a Talon base and raze it to the ground. He was trying not to focus on thoughts of rage or revenge. He was _trying_. 

“Most of what was rendered useless,” he waved offhandedly at his arms and legs, before settling a hand on his chest plate, directly over ruined, withered lungs, “was a direct side effect of the havoc wrought by the experiments I endured, but not all…” He shifted to lay the hand formerly placed on his chest atop the scaled tail of the Eastern dragon curled around the carbon fiber sleeve running the length from his shoulder to his wrist. 

“You are suggesting that it was your dragons that did this?” He couldn’t believe it. Their dragons were entrusted to them from birth to protect them. Even when Genji had reflected Hanzo’s own dragons back at him in Hanamura, they had merely weakened him, whereas anyone else would have been destroyed soon after coming into contact with the raw majesty of their power. 

“I do not- cannot blame them for their actions. They did not recognize me. They merely sought to eliminate that which was causing them such pain.” He purposefully avoided meeting Genji’s gaze as he spoke, instead choosing to focus on the wall at the foot at his bed. 

“It is not like you to sound so defeated, brother.” It was meant to rile him, to bring boiling to the surface anything other than this cold indifference that Hanzo seemed so intent on preserving.

At the very least, his brother looked at him. “I am resigned. This body will not let me die, which can only mean that I have either found redemption or will never find it. In either case, my search is over. What more is there for me to do?”

“You can fight,” Genji insisted with uncharacteristic firmness. “Overwatch still needs you, brother.” _Even now, I still…._

“And what better way to pass a second of eternity than to embroil myself in yet another conflict? Is _this_ ,” an armored limb flicked out in a streak of black, encompassing the whole of Hanzo’s prosthetic body in a gesture that combined both long buried frustration and raw, oozing anguish, “truly not enough?”

It was deeply unsettling to know there was a very real anger there, hidden beneath a voice entirely devoid of inflection or emotion. He might have to speak to Dr. Ziegler later, ask her if there was anything he could do to help speed up the process of the creation of the second synthesizer. 

“The Hanzo I knew would not give up so easily.” Genji regretted his word choice as soon as he finished speaking, and wasn’t surprised when his brother stiffened at the insinuation that any part of this had been easy, although that wasn’t what he’d meant to imply. With the smoldering heat of his glare evident even through his visor, the former Talon assassin said slowly, “I am not the man you knew.” 

It was clear that he was ready to let the subject drop, but Genji wasn’t done. To his mild consternation, however, yet another interruption presented itself in the form of an unexpected visitor, forcing him to set it aside for the moment. 

Hana burst into the room with her long hair disheveled, zeroed in on Hanzo, and made a beeline for his cot, leaping forward the last few feet to throw her arms around his neck. Genji quickly moved out of the way.

She sniffed pathetically, her shoulders shuddering while Hanzo held onto her to keep her from slipping off the bed, still struggling to process this latest turn of events. “Are you crying?” He’d forgotten for a moment what he’d sounded like. Both of the brothers subtly cringed, but Hana either didn’t notice or didn’t deem it fit to care.

Her grip around him tightened. “We thought you were dead, dum-dum.” She squirmed until they were face-to-face. “Of course I am!” “But you’re back now, right? I’ve been working on my archery since… well… “ She chewed on her lip, unsure of how to proceed. “But I’m not that good,” was what she decided to go with, “and could really use some more lessons.” Round, soulful brown eyes widened in a sudden spike of fear. In his initial days at Overwatch, Hanzo had often wondered if the girl was even capable of experiencing such an emotion. “You’re not going to disappear on us again, are you?

Doing his best to ignore the distinctly smug aura emanating from where his younger brother stood, Hanzo uttered the words which he knew well would bind him once more, but could not, in that moment, bring himself to care. “I would not dream of it.”

 

It was McCree’s turn to supervise him after Hanzo’s release the next day, which was how Hanzo had found himself wandering the halls aimlessly, looking like the world’s most directionally challenged and incompetent Talon agent. 

He was murmuring to himself in frustration, low so the box could not pick it up and the sounds remained incomprehensible, when a cheerful hail from behind him attracted his attention. He turned around with deliberate slowness, reminding himself that he was in Overwatch, and anyone who wished to speak with him would almost certainly be an ally. Additionally, the mechanical tones had struck him as familiar and distinctly non-hostile. 

It was the Omnic monk his brother cared so much for that floated over to him, his legs crossed in the Lotus position. “Hello!” Unsure of how to respond, Hanzo offered a small wave. “I am afraid I have not heard news of someone new joining us at Watchpoint. My name is Zenyatta.” He waited. “And you are?”

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did, to be not be recognized by his brother’s teacher, and yet Hanzo found it difficult to merely accept, though that didn’t stop him in the attempt. There were things that could and should not be endured, yet he had. He’d endured and survived. In comparison, this encounter would hardly even be worth remembering. “It’s- “ Again, his own voice took him off-guard. Zenyatta, on the other hand, appeared unfazed. “Ghost.” Now that he’d said it out loud, it sounded remarkably pretentious. “On second thought, call me by whatever name suits you. It makes no difference to me.” Although he did not expect the monk to hurt him, a bitter grimace still twisted his features. Synthetic muscles contracted without his consent, having been trained over time to brace for the onset of pain following the profession of any sort of independent wants or desire.

The nine dots upon Zenyatta’s forehead shimmered. He hummed softly, subtly increasing the distance between their bodies so that his companion did not feel pressured by the proximity. “An interesting request, to be sure. To impose a name upon you would suggest that I wield power over your identity. However, as I do not, I would much rather wait until you feel inclined to share your preference with me.”

This short interaction with his brother’s teacher was proving to be so widely removed from any he’d endured in Talon that it almost felt like a dream. When it came to accepting kindness, he was dreadfully out of practice, so rather than attempt to respond and unintentionally offend the Omnic, the archer uttered a low noise of acknowledgment, and left it at that.

When it became apparent that he was not going to put any effort into helping the conversation along, Zenyatta said, “If you do not mind my asking, what is it that brings you here today? Might you be a new recruit?” There was a subtle note of suspicion that did not go unnoticed. “Or are you, perhaps, visiting Watchpoint for another reason?” The golden orbs orbiting around his upper chest and head stilled with an abruptness that resulted in them teetering slightly as they hovered as though from a string in mid-air. 

A direct blow from one of those likely wouldn’t damage his armored plates too much, but the impact certainly wouldn’t be pleasant. 

Were he able, Hanzo would have grinned at this glimpse of the warrior within the sage. Having spent the majority of his youth questioning his brother’s judgment, it was a relief to see that what he’d lacked in taste when it’d come to his clothing or hairstyle, he’d more than made up for with his choice in comrades. “I promise you, monk, I am not here to fight. I am merely searching for my guide.”

The Omnic nodded. “We are all guided by the Iris. Though I imagine your meaning to be a tad more literal.” There was a lightness in tone that gave the impression of a wink. "May I ask for the name of this misplaced guide?”

“McCree.” Hanzo grumbled. He’d fallen into step beside the Omnic, following him as he glided effortlessly through the maze of blank walls and dead ends. It didn't happen immediately, but eventually Hanzo recognized the path they were taking. He wondered idly if the Omnic were taking him to the control room so that they could call for McCree over the loudspeaker as though he were a lost child in a supermarket. 

He stopped in his tracks. How long had it been since he’d thought about anything so mundane?

 

_“What a pretty blue,” came the awed whisper of a young girl. He looked up from where he was sitting, back pressed against a cement wall with recently carved gouges running through it, to see her pressing her nose against the space between the bars that separated her cell from his. Dirt and straw stuck out of her sandy blond curls, a remnant of a night spent with murderers and terrorists. “It reminds me of my nightlight at home. My mom got it for me because I'm afraid of the dark.” She hesitated, gaze darting fretfully right and left, as though anticipating the arrival of the boogeyman. “Are you afraid of the dark, too, Mr. Omnic?” Her fellow prisoner did not bother to correct her. He waited for the red indicator light on the camera hanging from the corner of his cell to stutter and fail, as it sometimes did when he was tempted to do something stupid. Sure enough, the camera powered down._

_He took the opportunity to shift closer to the girl, making certain to do so in such an exaggeratedly labored manner so that there was no mistaking his exact feelings regarding the necessity of the activity, in order to throw what little of the cerulean light his armor produced as far into her cell as he could._

_She rewarded his efforts with a quiet gasp, before lighting up with a smile, revealing a top row filled with not-quite-grown adult teeth, all of which now shone with a bluish tint._

 

Zenyatta slowed so as not to leave him behind, remaining close while he struggled to tame the sudden onset of unwelcome thoughts and feelings throwing him off-balance. 

Partly to distract himself and partly out of genuine curiousity, Hanzo asked, “I have heard that you believe all humans and Omnics are equal. That machines have a soul…” 

Zenyatta dipped his head down, then tilted it to the side, turning his unwavering gaze upon him. “We are all one in the Iris.”

A scoff scraped through Hanzo’s ruined throat. The effect was a grating sound, like two gears grinding together. “And I suppose that line works on all the lost souls you meet?”

“Often not on the first try.” The Omnic admitted with gentle laughter in his voice. “Some take more persuading than others. In fact, my student was a very stubborn case. He often attempted to ignore my teachings, intent on pushing me away, however…” Zenyatta paused, appearing thoughtful. “I could not bring myself to ignore such a wounded heart.” And though he possessed no human eyes with which to see Hanzo felt suddenly as though the remnants of his soul, if such a thing he still possessed, were being laid bare before the monk. “You remind me very much of him.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. It did. “It must be your imagination.”

They stopped outside the control room, where upon Zenyatta wished him the best of luck in locating his errant guide. Stunned that the Omnic was actually going to leave him unsupervised, Hanzo asked if leaving him unattended was truly a wise decision. 

The Omnic stared kindly down at him, a soft glow emanating from his form. “Yes, well, I suppose I will just have to trust you.”

There was a beat. Hanzo couldn’t move, couldn’t even begin to imagine the first thing he’d do if he could. His thoughts had come to a crashing halt. He was… Why did none of them understand? He wasn’t a kind man, or a good man. And after what they’d done to him, he couldn’t even truly be called a-

“Oi, Hanzo!” With a soft utterance of surprise, Zenyatta lowered himself to the ground to watch as the cowboy barreled towards them, harried and moderately disheveled. 

The archer silently watched the Omnic’s initial struggle. It passed quickly, however, suggesting that, on some level, the monk had always known. “Hanzo?”

There was sympathy and horror, neither of which he was equipped to deal with. He’d much preferred it when the monk believed him a stranger. 

McCree bent over at the hip when he finally caught up to them, and wiped his knuckles over his brow. “Whew. I thought Genji was gonna have to kill me for losing you. You can’t run off like that, partner.”

“I did not.” Hanzo retorted shortly. Disgusted with the Omnic’s pity and his own inability to refute it, he pushed past the cowboy to escape into the control room. Due to Morrison’s orders, he hadn’t had a moment alone to collect himself, and was beginning to feel the strain. “You left me behind.”

Though McCree called after him, he did not follow. A small mercy. 

Ah… Genji was going to hear about this. 

“Morrison? Is that you?” It was Winston. He grunted, wary of the gorilla tapping rapidly at several keyboards on a rounded desk, each of which were connected to a separate monitor. The screens were illuminated with newspaper articles, video clips, and still frames. In one, the general theme centered around a missing group of missionaries in South Africa.

Hanzo remembered their faces. They were recent college graduates. They’d wanted to make their mark on the world, do some good. He’d watched them from afar, listened to their jokes and stories when they settled down at night around the campfire.

They hadn’t felt any fear or pain. He’d made sure of that.

It was the screen across from the young, smiling missionaries that trapped him, refusing to loosen its hold. It depicted a married couple waving in front of the English and British flags, two London politicians running for Parliament. They’d been esteemed for their honesty, for a sincerity and a genuine desire to do good that permeated every speech and debate they conquered on their campaign. They’d told the crowds at every opportunity that they were going to clean up the streets, better the education systems, and lower the unemployment rate, and all so that the world would be a better place for their daughter, and if the polls had been anything to go by, the people had believed them.

They’d disappeared without a trace two months ago, taken while their daughter was sleeping over at the house of a family friend. Their little girl went missing on her way to school the very next day.

Winton started at the sight of him, moved to exit out of the files, then hesitated. He left them up. “Good evening, Agent Shimada,” he greeted cordially, adjusting his glasses so the frames pressed more snugly against the contours of his face. It was a nervous gesture Hanzo had seen commonly enough during his initial stay with Overwatch. 

Choosing to remain silent, Hanzo acknowledged the greeting with a nod, then stepped closer to the monitors, taking in each of the faces and names, but always coming back to the London couple. 

“It’s actually something of a relief that you’re here.” Too stilted to be sincere. That doesn’t mean he’s lying, though. “Morrison wanted to hear your report today, but I… offered to take it, instead. I believed you might be more comfortable speaking someone a little less,” he paused, struggling for the appropriate adjective, “intense.”

He pressed a key, filling every screen with the smiling English couple. “Let’s start with where the rumors of Ghost first began to circulate. What were you doing during the time that Mark, Carolyn, and Emily Golding went missing?”

Hanzo clenched his fists at his sides. There was nothing left, however. The musculature had been chipped away during the experimentation, replaced by unfeeling prosthetics. He might as well have done nothing. 

For once, he was grateful for the vocal synthesizer hanging off his throat. “I was a child’s nightlight.”

Winston fixed him with a disapproving frown. “This is not a laughing matter, Hanzo.

He stiffened, some of his old spark rising at the rebuke. “It would be wise not to assume that my time in captivity has transformed me into some manner of comedian. You asked me a question and I have answered.”

“What happened to the children, Hanzo?” Winston insisted. “Most of these men and women were killed as they lay in their beds, after which their bodies were taken to a different location, but those with children were generally disposed of while the children were at school or otherwise outside of the house, correct? Almost as though someone where trying to spare them.” He paused to allow Hanzo to elaborate, but it was not because he’d been waiting for an opportunity to speak that Hanzo had listened without comment. “And yet... they disappeared not soon after.” Winston frowned, and the screens behind him flickered, changing into snapshots of birthdays, sports competitions, and pre-school graduations. “Where are they, Hanzo? What happened to them?”

Though the questions were firm, the expression Winston wore was not unkind, and Hanzo struggled to recall how to string a coherent sentence together. Where did he start? What did he say? He swallowed hard against what felt like a brick in his throat, tasting iron. “Without this armor,” To utter this truth was never easy, but it was still leagues above having it thrown in his face, “I am little better than a corpse. The Caduceus experiment was a failure.” Only four more words to go, then he’d be done. Then he could finally rest. Shoving away his exhaustion for the mean time, he steadfastly met Winston’s gaze, “I… was a failure.”

The scientist was remarkably quick on the uptake. “What you’re saying is that there were other attempts.” 

_“I can’t see your light, Mr. Omnic,” he heard her whisper, soft and papery, through the bars. It must have been after her fifth or sixth round of injections. He wasn’t sure, anymore. After he’d started attacking the Talon agents sent to take her, they’d begun deactivating his respiratory filters before filling his cell with a powerful sedative in the form of an inescapable gaseous cloud. She was already back in the cell, lying on the ground, too thin and shivering, when the effects wore off. Not bothering to check to see if the camera was active, though it almost certainly wasn’t – it was off more often than not these days - he checked her over for signs of decay. There didn't seem to be any. His resulting relieved sigh was gusty and dry, the rustle of dead leave shifting in an autumn breeze._

_After flinching minutely at the sound, she turned to face the ceiling with a low groan, throwing a hand over her eyes. “It’s too bright in here."_

_For the rest of the night, fever burned her mind. She cried out for her mother, her father. She whimpered with the soft cries of a wounded bird, flinging out thin arms with skin that occasionally gained a translucent sheen, and the cyborg listened with growing horror, knowing they weren’t coming. Knowing why._

“Winston,” the scientist watched in shock as the archer bowed his head, “don’t… please do not ask this of me.”

It was its own answer, in a way. For a time, they regarded each other in heavy silence, until Winston slowly reached over the nearest of the bright monitors, and switched it off. The rest followed suit without his assistance.

“Okay, Agent Shimada. Okay.”

 

_Standing outside his cell, Reaper drilled the dark, slanted eyes of his mask into the cyborg, studying him like an insect with its arms and legs pinned under a sheet of glass, “You’re telling me you want us to let her go?”_

_Why keep her? What was the point of it? They had him, didn't they? He’d do whatever they asked; he wouldn’t run, so why keep the girl?_

_He gripped the bars, feeling nothing from the contact. While resting his ornate headplate against the metal, the cyborg nodded, entirely apathetic to the grating scrape the motion produced._

_Reaper scoffed. “Then you really are a failure.”_

 

McCree was waiting beside the door when Hanzo stepped out after finally being freed from the improvised interrogation. He turned to face the cowboy, shocked that he’d stayed. McCree lifted the brim of his hat so he could get a better look at him, “How’d it go, partner?” Hanzo did not see it fit to deem the question worthy of an answer, and so turned on his heel, forcing the cowboy to lengthen his strides and quicken his pace if he were to entertain any hope of catching up. “That good, huh?”

 

_The girl, Emily, scrunched her nose. “Your hands are cold.”_

_The cyborg responded by writing in the dirt, ‘I know. I’m sorry.’_

_Once she finished tracing them, she frowned at the words. “Stop that," she said seriously. "Stop being sad.”_

 

Genji couldn’t sleep.

A full and busy mind prevented him from accessing the prolonged trance that for so long constituted rest for him, and so he padded into the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone else with his late night rummaging through the pantry. 

There were too many circuits and wires within his synthetic body to allow for the consumption of liquids, but it was not the taste he was after this night, but rather the warmth and the smell. Standing alone in the kitchen with the kettle heating up, a mug, and a packet of cocoa, Genji prepared a cup of hot chocolate. Its sweet scent saturated the air in seconds, and he breathed it in, imagining the taste so vividly it was almost taste it. 

“Would you mind if I joined you?” At the unexpected address, Genji started, accidentally sloshing the beverage onto the counter. He lowered his mug, looking down at the spilt liquid with the air of someone having borne witness to a terrible tragedy. He turned to see his brother standing by the refrigerator, head tilted quizzically to the side. “Forgive me. I did not intend to startle you.” 

Though the old urge to shrug it off with a breezy denial stirred, Genji tamped it down. There would be opportunity in the future to indulge in petty squabbles over pride. “Trouble sleeping, brother?”

Hanzo settled down on a stool, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm. On the whole, he appeared distracted. “I could ask you the same.”

With a quiet hum, Genji poured another cup of hot chocolate. The steam soaked through the exterior layer of his augmented ligaments, resulting in a pleasant warmth traveling up to his wrists.

He hesitated only a second before sliding it over, internally floundering over how to broach of subject of whether or not his systems could tolerate the introduction of liquids. Hanzo halted the mug’s momentum with a metal palm when it reached the edge, and clutched it tightly between his hands. 

Watching him closely, Genji sat down to do the same.

There was no indication that Hanzo was ever planning on removing his veil. Instead, he hunched over the wisps of steam, allowing the heated air to condense on his forehead protector until water droplets slid down the curled horns protruding from it, collecting within the curves and grooves of the dragon’s defined brow before they overflowed and dripped onto the table. 

Genji interpreted this as confirmation that his brother’s body was ill equipped to process foreign liquids, and likely possessed an internal hydration and cooling system. In that way, it was not dissimilar to his own. 

“You are staring, Genji.” Abashed at having been caught in the act, he quickly ducked his head, filling his vision with the frothy chocolate bubbling at the rim of his mug. 

They dwelled within uncomfortable silence until their drinks cooled to room temperature, and Genji, realizing that this short spell, this pocket of time where it was just the two of them, with no masks to hide behind, was coming to an end, asked a question that he feared he would not get the opportunity to ask again. “Hanzo?” His brother grunted to show that he was listening. “Is it your wish that you remain an active member of Overwatch?” Hanzo lifted his head sharply, meeting his gaze. Genji waited for him to speak, only to add when no answer proved forthcoming, “If you feel that you need more time, I can talk to Morrison. He is stern, but not unreasonable.”

Just when he began to believe that he’d inadvertently upset his brother, something which he imagined would be very easy to do over the coming weeks, Hanzo set aside his mug, and rose to his feet. “Come outside with me. There is something I must show you.”

 

It did not take as much convincing as it should have for Genji to follow Hanzo to the cliffside. 

The waves could be heard crashing against the shore, slamming against clusters of large and jagged rocks a hundred feet below them. It would be only too easy for Hanzo to kill him, to toss his body to the rocks and finally finish what he had started all those years ago, but though there was a limit to the amount of trust one could place in another before it became foolishness, and though Morrison would certainly tell him that following a former prisoner of Talon out alone into the night was the very definition of stupidity, Genji could not find it within himself to refuse his brother this, not when he was forced to ask with a voice and body that were not his own. 

A seed of unease took root within him, however, when he noticed the spectral energy beginning to seep out of the markings spiraled around Hanzo's sleeve. It started out as a wisp when he began to pace back and forth in blatant agitation over the same patch of dirt, a vapor with little more substance than the steam they’d warmed their hands and faces with in the kitchen. Then it gained form, becoming scaled, serpent-like, and twisting.

It swelled and ebbed in waves, rising and falling. Building. “Genji?”

Straightening, he responded automatically, “Yes?”

Hanzo jerked his head towards the trees, saying simply, “Stay out of sight.”

Taking a reluctant step back, Genji nodded, opting to trust Hanzo’s judgment in this instance, then leapt to conceal his persistent green glow within the cover of the trees.

From his perch on the thick branch of a sycamore, Genji could hear the mechanical drone of Hanzo’s voice as he quickly muttered the dragon’s summons. 

A guttural growl reverberating in his chest, Hanzo barely managed to extend his arm before the dragons burst forth with a ferocious pressure that parted the grass like a massive blade cutting through the sea, stripped leaves from the surrounding trees and beat against the cyborg concealed within their branches. With one arm raised to defend against the gale that threatened to throw him from the bough he’d chosen, Genji dug his remaining fingers and heels into the branch, determined to keep himself from careening off the cliff for an impromptu dip in the ocean that he likely would not survive. 

What was this energy? 

Though untamed, the guardian spirits had always maintained a degree of focus in their destruction, but this was chaos. 

In contrast to the noble fluidity usually demonstrated by the revered beasts, they proved incapable of maintaining their flight, shuddered, and plowed headfirst into the ground, their snapping maws and corded whiskers burying into the sand the dirt while their tails writhed and roiled, their dazed eyes rolling wildly with the unbridled fear and panic of a wounded animal. 

The tufts of fur about their muzzles was tangled and matted. A vibrant scarlet leaked from their gums where fangs had rent the spirit’s flesh, and their scales, once glittering with health and vitality, now peeled and flaked in diseased patches.

From his vantage point, Genji could see the smoke curling from the arm Hanzo had used for the conduit. He was supporting it now, struggling to remain standing after the immense burden summoning the spirits had placed on the cybernetic components of his body. 

How reckless.

This was why reinforced weapons were the traditional channels through which the spirits were summoned. The strain they placed on the body was too great. 

An agonized bellow cut through his thoughts. There was a hollow ache within him that he recognized as sympathy for the tortured beasts.

They were a direct reflection of the state of Hanzo’s own spirit. While not broken, he had undeniably been bent, warped into a different form, and the consequences of such distortions were yet unforeseen. As strange as it was not to see his brother’s face or hear from him the rich baritone he’d come to associate with the archer, as terrifyingly helpless he had felt listening to Hanzo repeatedly suffocate and revive, it was not the changes done to his body that worried Genji most. 

Scars of the body would be overcome in time. Scars of the soul and mind, however, were often unpredictable, and they rarely healed smoothly. 

There were even times when they never healed, when they reopened and wept, until the wound became a constant, festering reminder that held you prisoner in its pain. 

Hanzo was strong, a born warrior of the highest caliber. But the scars from their past confrontation had only just begun to fade when these new wounds had been carved into his heart. 

Deciding he’d observed long enough to know that he was needed on the ground, Genji leapt from the tree, landing in a crouch with his fist braced against the upturned grass and dirt. He raised his head sharply, needing answers, and if he were being completely honest, a target. “How did this happen?”

One of the dragons unleashed an anguished bellow, a pitiful sound like nothing Genji had ever heard from them before. “Despite what you may think, I did not gain a reputation as the assassin of a terrorist organization by defying them at every turn.”

“But that is not the whole truth, is it, brother?” It as he’d feared. Any progress Hanzo had made towards forgiving himself for his mistakes and finding value in his continued existence had been demolished with the blunt force of a sledgehammer. 

Predictably, Hanzo sighed, but he wouldn’t have brought Genji outside, wouldn’t have shown him the ruinous state of his dragons, if he hadn’t intended to at least elaborate on the cause.

 

_She dug her torn and ragged nails into the earth, putting up an admirable fight, but these were grown men with their bruising grips around her legs, wrenching her from the bars with no concern for the damage the violence was doing to her paper-thin skin. When she finally let go, it was with a terrible cry of pain, and the cyborg in the cell next to hers struggled, trapped as he was where four other tall, strong agents had pinned him against the iron bars. He snarled wordlessly, bucking and twisting in their grips, doing anything to get free because the girl – Emily – would not live through another round of the injections and cellular manipulation that the scientists were subjecting her to._

_He was a failure. He could not sustain his life outside of the suit they had forced upon him, and his regeneration were nowhere near as reliable as the former Blackwatch commander’s, but the girl was dying. She whimpered in her sleep for parents she would never see again, she shivered in the cold and dark, but despite the hopelessness of their situation, despite the fact that he had no right to even look upon her face, let alone see her smile, she’d regaled him with tales of her favorite stuffed animal, a fox named Reinard, a gift from her mother from when Emily had fallen sick with the flu. Her favorite color was blue, but not like the ocean or the sky, but rather like the stars, a flickering, pulsing, living, friendly blue._

_She wanted to be an astronaut someday. She wanted to see the stars for herself._

_One of the cowards grabbed a fistful of matted blond hair, whipped her head off the ground with an audible crack, then slammed it back down, smashing her nose, mouth, and eyes into the mud._

_The cyborg’s azure visor flashed. The ground shook, and dragons, forced to materialize in this realm by the hatred and impotent fury of their host, attacked blindly, ripping with terrifying ease through anything that moved._

_When it was over, and all of the operatives lay in unrecognizable pieces, scattered throughout what remained of their prison, he awkwardly maneuvered himself over short iron cylinders, all that remained of the bars that had separated them these past weeks, then crawled to the child, dragging himself through the dirt with the single arm the dragons had left him. Behind him, a scarlet trail marked where he pulled useless half-legs through the dirt. The cybernetic enhancements, the bones, the deteriorating flesh – all of it had vanished in a rush of gleaming fangs and scales._

_He should have restrained the dragons, but instead he’d given in to his anger, and now the one person he’d wanted to protect, the child that was as much a shackle as a blessing, was dead._

_It wasn’t their fault. He knew this. But in that moment where he found himself unable to stand, unable to even properly hold her… For the very first time since he came into the world, he hated his dragons._

_Gathering her close as he best he could, he pressed a cool palm against her limp and straggly curls, only to find that even the luxury of tears was denied to him._

_He sat there among the carnage, shaking in the dark with the rapidly cooling body of an innocent, of a girl who'd smiled like she was on a mission to save the world, until Reaper found him, and he was taken away to be prepped for repair._

 

The explanation Hanzo offered was succinct, but it was enough to form a vivid picture in Genji’s mind of what horrors he and the other prisoners must have endured. He thought back to how disorienting and frightening it’d been to wake up in a cybernetic body, and that was with Mercy there to help him through it. 

Hanzo had not woken up this way. It had been a gradual and unnecessary procedure, done in the interest of erasing the man and creating a weapon. 

They’d forced him to wield a blade, to steal the lives of civilians and officials working to promote peace and goodwill, and then when he’d try to spare one life, they stole her from the light where she belonged, so that he could witness the consequences of attempting to cling to his humanity. 

His master would tell him not to harbor to a grudge, lest it grow within him like a weed and consume him, but he had now lost his brother twice and refused to do so again. “If I had found you sooner-“

Hanzo cut him off with what Genji sensed to be a sharp look, a rare spark of anger that Genji couldn’t help but find reassuring. “Do not dwell on what might have been. Therein lies madness.” Genji frowned, tempted to ask if he was speaking from experience. “I never blamed you. I had no reason to. You must,” there was a ferocious roar from the celestial beasts, and he swayed, threatening to fall. Jolting forward, Genji extended his arms to catch him, only to withdraw when Hanzo managed to stumble and catch himself, “…know that.”

It was taking too long to dispel the dragons. Sustaining their continued presence was draining him at an immense rate. “Send them back, Hanzo.” The only response he received was a sluggish and dazed nod, as thought the archer weren’t truly listening at all, but was instead absorbed in the suffering of his celestial beasts. 

Moving with lightning spend to grip him by the shoulders and wrench him around until he had no choice but to look at him, Genji snapped, “Hanzo!” 

He roused as though shaken from a dream. “They can no longer hear me.”

And hearing that, Genji saw past the armor, the alterations, the enhancements, saw past even the walls raised to convince the world that his heart was made of stone, and found a man, hidden deep within, who was so lost he’d long given up on the hope of ever being found. 

Well, if that was the case… 

Releasing his brother, who drooped noticeably once deprived of the additional support his grip had provided, Genji gripped the hilt of his blade. 

It might work. It could work. 

He had to try. 

Genji unsheathed his katana, calm coming to him easily now with the familiar movement and the nearly inaudible scrape of his blade’s curved edge.

It started out small, a wisp that could have been chalked up to the starlight glinting verdant off the blade’s reflective surface, but then it solidified, growing thick, growing scales, a long snout, and jagged spikes that framed the dragon’s jaw and protruded from the top of its heavy brow, continuing down its spine before ending in the form of the small mounds at the tip of its tail. 

Jade, pupiless eyes narrowed at the sight of the roiling azure dragons and their weakening host. A disgusted snarl ripped through the night, and it launched forward, springing from Genji’s blade to take flight, until it reached the pair, and began to carefully circle around the feral beasts. 

They shrunk into themselves, snapping at the wall of green scales keeping them corralled, and Genji’s dragon roared.

Eventually, when it became clear that the green dragon had no intention of harming them, the dragon’s wary gazes shifted to a curiosity that carried with it traces of their former awareness. After a few additional revolutions, the green dragon slowed and broke the circle, allowing Hanzo’s dragons to join in its flight. 

At first, they were unsteady, but the green dragon was patient, alternating between growls and exasperated huffs as it waited for them to rediscover their balance, and though the azure spirits sometimes snarled their irritation at the prodding, they listened, and soon enough, to the amazement of both the Shimada brothers, their great serpent bodies lifted off the ground. 

The green dragon soared in triumph, a neon streak shooting towards the sky, and its siblings followed, twisting and arcing as they followed its path across the stars.

Gradually, they began to fade, becoming more and more transparent until the only remaining evidence of their passage was the curling traces of their mixing auras… and the utter destruction the rampage of the blue dragons had rent upon the cliffside. 

Helping his brother to his feet, Genji allowed himself a soft sigh. Morrison was not going to be the least bit happy about this. 

It seemed Hanzo was thinking along the same lines. “The Commander was already less than enthused about my stay here. Do you suppose he will request that I leave?”

He shifted to take on the burden of the majority of his weight when Genji took a step forward, ignoring what was sure to be an unimpressed glare aimed in his direction. “If he does,” Genji began, “his organization will lose the greatest ninja of this generation.” He allowed time for Hanzo to digest his words, before adding lightly, “And also his older brother.”

Hanzo huffed. “Remind me to hit you once when my strength returns.”

Laughing off the half-hearted retort with practiced ease, the cyborg shifted his hold on his brother to free up an arm so that he could input the main entrance’s passcode, then helped him over the threshold when the debatably infiltration proof door slid open to reveal Mercy and Morrison standing in the corridor, brows furrowed and arms crossed over their chests, feet tapping out a steady rhythm on the linoleum floor. 

Genji gulped, noting a sensation of rising dread that felt disturbingly similar to what he recalled experiencing in his adolescence, on those rare occasions when he’d been caught sneaking out to rendezvous with his friends in the village.

Morrison started to speak, only to stop when Mercy abruptly cut him off with, “What were you two thinking? What could have possessed you to think summoning dragons in the middle of the night was a good idea?!” To be fair, it had been Hanzo’s idea. Genji was pretty sure he didn't deserve this, but Dr. Ziegler was less than impressed by his attempts to defend himself. “I don’t care whose idea it was. Your brother's still recovering, and Genji,” – Oh no. – “I expected better from you.” And there it was.

“My apologies, Dr. Ziegler,” Hanzo said. “It was indeed my idea to step outside to test the state of my guardian spirits.” Genji nodded a little too eagerly, accidentally jostling Hanzo, who nearly slipped from his shoulder before Genji had the chance to hastily adjust his grip.

Dr. Ziegler placed her hands on her hips, looking sternly at the two of them, then suddenly sagged, all the ire rushing out of her in a breathy exhale. “It is late. Why don’t you drop your brother off in the infirmary then head off to your quarters? We will discuss this in the morning.”

Massaging his brow and suddenly looking very much as if, given the option to relive the past few minutes, he’d have pulled the sheets over his head and rolled over, Morrison muttered, “It’s best to do what she says.”

“Are you… sending me to my room?” Maybe it was the disbelief in his tone that did it, but Dr. Ziegler’s lips thinned, her blue eyes narrowing to dangerous slits, and Genji recognizing the telltale signs of an oncoming storm, hastily raised the palm not wrapped around his brother’s torso in a placating manner, “Right, okay, I’m going.”

While they hobbled awkwardly through the hallways, making slow progress due to one bearing more weight than the other, despite the archer’s best efforts to support himself, Dr. Ziegler maintained a pace that was always several steps ahead of them. Never leaving them behind, but also making it clear how upset the sight of her recently released patient back in such a weakened state both angered and worried her.

Noticing the chastened manner in which Hanzo observed the stiffness of her back and shoulders, Genji offered, drawing on his years of experience with busting up his cybernetic suit or draining his power core and the scoldings that subsequently ensued, “Do not fret, _anija_. Her ire will fade in time... Most things do.”

He felt Hanzo stiffen. “As the doctor said, it is late.” He hadn’t expected a reply, only hoped that he would interpret the deeper meaning to his words, and now he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to have simply let the subject drop. “However, I am… grateful to you.” It sounded like he was struggling, but Genji barely noticed. He hadn’t expected this, to be thanked even though it had taken him so many months to find him, and now that it was happening, he found himself drawing a blank on how to react. "For searching for me, for returning me to this place. And for helping my dragons. I did not think I would again see them soar as they did tonight."

Finding his voice after a long moment of stunned silence, Genji hummed, tightening his grip around Hanzo's torso by the slightest degree. “Given time, their wounds will fade, as well.” _As will yours, brother._

He raised his head stiffly, focusing in his mind's eye on the distant back of a former friend and present adversary to whom he owed a debt.

_As will mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's going to be one last part to complete this, and it's entirely Genji's fault. 
> 
> I should mention, though, that I will be moving to China in a few days. As far as I know, AO3 is blocked there, but I've purchased a VPN so we'll see how that works out. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep updating on this site, but if for some reason I can't, all of my stories are crossposted to ff.net. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading my stories. I hope you enjoyed this latest installment, too!


	11. Roaming Without Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! 
> 
> This drabble ( and it really is a drabble this time ) is based off of Blizzard's new comic, so if you haven't read that yet and would like to, it might be best to give that a read before you continue on with this chapter. With that said, this entire drabble was inspired by one panel. 
> 
> The panel with Hanzo in it. 
> 
> Naturally.

The cool wind nipping at the nape of his neck feels foreign to him. He’s worn his hair long since he was a child, and even now a small part of him expects to hear a stern reprimand for this new style, for the piercings running through the bridge of his nose and through the soft cartilage of his ears. It is hardly an appearance befitting the heir to a proud and dignified clan, after all. 

And yet, the harsh words never come. In fact, as he roams the crowded, illuminated streets in Mexico for no reason other than a sudden whimsy to walk amongst the celebrations, he finds that he’s actually drawing less attention to himself now. No one pays him a second glance as he passes easily through the market, soaking in the vibrant fabrics and the smell of something sweet wafting through the air.

It’s been so long since he’s walked without direction or purpose, since he’s allowed his mind to rest, his feet to take them where they will, and he doesn’t know what he deserves, anymore, but he knows what he wants. And he thinks that maybe… he _can_ want. 

It’s okay.

Soon, he sees a boy smiling in front of a bakery, gazing longingly at a Christmas cake covered in strawberries and white frosting. He’s wearing a wool cap, with his dark brown hair swept to the side, and a heavy jacket that’s a little too large, possibly a hand-me-down from an older brother or a cousin, and Hanzo can see the hunger in his eyes, the longing, and thinks, _What do I want right now?_

So, he offers some money to the bakers and points to the cake. They bring it out, he takes it, and the boy, though envious, takes heart in knowing that at least someone will be eating that delicious dessert on Christmas, even if he'd much rather it'd be him. He’s still smiling when Hanzo turns to him, the cake held out in silent offering.

And the boy lights up like a firework, illuminating every shadow, every street corner, every nook and cranny for miles. 

Then he wraps his arms around the gift, and runs off to tell his mother the good news. Hanzo watches until the boy's small back disappears amongst the moving sea of people doing their holidays rounds, the Christmas cake still clutched tightly to his chest. 

Once he's out of sight, his head no longer bobbing up and down in the crowd, Hanzo turns to walk back in the direction of the hotel he's staying at. There's an unopened letter from Nepal burning in his pocket, and he knows exactly what he wants to do next.


	12. Tried to sell my soul tonight

Hanzo Shimada was dead.

That didn’t stop him being a perpetual thorn in 76’s side. He followed the soldier relentlessly, often appearing without warning in a billowing cloud of tainted fog and smoke. He rarely stood on the ground these days, preferring to sit on the walls or hang by his feet from the ceiling. 

He didn’t speak unless addressed, and even then, offered little besides the occasional infuriatingly cryptic statement, his milky-white eyes and too wide, crescent-shaped grin betraying nothing beyond an inkling of amusement at the soldier’s expense.

He visited no one else, not Lucio and Hana, not Lena or Mercy, not even his brother. When he was feeling particularly cross with the _oni_ , 76, a reclusive spirit by nature, would seek out their company, knowing Hanzo would dissipate before they ever caught sight of him.

Finally, 76 couldn’t take anymore. Hanzo was hovering silently behind him, watching with unblinking eyes as he obliterated the dummy bots in the shooting range with several unerring blasts of his pulse rifle, when he barked, “Why don’t you just spit it out, Shimada? What do you want from me?”

76 glanced at Hanzo’s reflection in the glass to see a grimace set upon the demon’s face. Curiously, the _oni_ opened and closed his mouth, working it soundlessly before finally giving up with a snarl of genuine frustration. “I can’t.” He shook his head. “If you make a deal-”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Hanzo splayed his hands helplessly. “Then this is the best I can do.” A light entered his pupiless eyes as an idea seemed to come to him. His grin stretched. “Actually, there may be something else.” 

He floated closer to the soldier, who tensed, firearm at the ready. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the archer’s shadow self, but it wasn’t the teasing, Mexican-accented words that drifted towards him. “You’re still so dense, _cabron_.”

Hanzo sat back, giving him space, as the man seemed to be breathing a little too harshly. “Well? Did you remember anything?”

A blast of heat streaked past his head, slamming into the wall behind him with enough force to leave a deep, smoking crater. “Get out,” 76 sneered, his pulse rifle already whirring as it charged its next shot. 

The oni nodded slowly, acknowledging the rejection with a tinge of sadness that 76 couldn’t believe was real. 

Then just as suddenly as he’d come, he vanished. 76 lowered his firearm with a heavy sigh. It was always like this. The demon would be back to torment him in no time.

When it was fully charged, the rifle let out a whine, and he turned his attention to the shooting range.

 

McCree didn't know what he was doing. This was not exactly an unusual state of affairs with him, as he would be the first to admit, but summoning a demon wasn’t something he could afford to mess up on.

Ana had told him the exact amount of each ingredient required for the ritual, had even drawn out a pentagram on a sheet of paper for him to copy. The only thing he needed now was something the demon had deemed important in life. 

He was tempted to just step into the center of the pentagram himself, but stifled the urge. Instead, he gently placed a yellow sash, a broken bow, and a faded, framed photo of two young men smiling cockily out at the world. 

He stepped back, satisfied with his work, then called out the true name of the demon, just as Ana had instructed. “Oi, Hanzo! Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey, pardner. I want to talk to ya.”

It took a minute, enough to make the cowboy sweat, before smoke rushed from the meticulous chalk lines, obscuring the pentagram. He coughed, eyes watering.

A blurry figure stood amongst the noxious clouds. Desperate to get a better look, McCree rubbed his eyes with his fists, clearing his vision until he could just make out the deathly pallor of the _oni's_ skin, the red ribbons tattooed around his eyes and on his chest standing out a startling crimson against the grey. Despite that, he only looked annoyed. “You know that is not the proper way to summon me, Jesse.

McCree responded with a triumphant grin. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Letting his head fall, Hanzo massaged his brow. He did not think he would still be suffering headaches after his death, and yet, one had clearly summoned him. “Why have you brought me here, McCree?”

“76 says you’ve been bothering him something fierce since you died.”

Keeping his expression stoic, Hanzo accepted the words, revealing no opinion on the matter either way. “Do you intend to banish me, then?” He said simply.

 _As if you could._

McCree clapped a hand to his forehead with a laugh. “Always straight to the point with you, isn’t it?” Sobering quickly, he added, “Nah, that ain’t it. Way I see it, only someone with good intentions could be that dang irritating.” 

The demon blinked, baffled. “Then why? For what purpose-

“I miss ya, darling.” McCree shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.” 

“I see,” Hanzo said slowly, the soft smile lifting his lips a painful reminder of who he’d once been, and who, far as anyone who cared for him, who really took the time to get to know him was concerned, he still was. Keeping his gaze locked on the cowboy, Hanzo stepped back, allowing the clouds he’d brought with him to fold over his body, enveloping him.

With a startled cry, McCree lunged. His hands passed through the clouds without resistance, coming up empty. He was still staring at them in disbelief and disappointment when the demon’s parting words curled tenderly around his ears, lingering like the last breath of a dying man, **_“Goodbye, Jesse.”_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pros to being a demon: Eternal life, knowledge of the universe, teleporting
> 
> Cons to being a demon: Eternal life, knowledge of the universe, an off-putting appearance, creepy mannerisms that pretty much guarantee your allies wouldn't believe you even if you could share vital information without a price, self-esteem issues, and a built-in fog machine that helps with dramatic entrances but comes with no Off switch.


	13. Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You make me scream, then I made you cry, when I left that little bird with its broken leg to die. - Ed Sheeran_

She’s pale and sweaty, with spots of pink in her cheeks and lines that Hanzo didn’t remember her having before, but even though her hair clings to bloodless skin and her whole body sags against the pillows propping her up with exhaustion, Hanzo doesn’t think his mother has ever looked happier than she does holding his new baby brother in her arms. 

While he wasn’t entirely sure of the details, he was sure that Genji had been inside their mother’s stomach before she started crying out like something was hurting her, before the doctors ushered her into the master bedroom, then closed the door behind them. Father walked inside not long after, and Hanzo tried to follow but the servants led him to the kitchens instead to wait for news, good or ill, because though he was the young heir, they still looked at him and saw a child. 

They poured him a tall glass of milk to go with the stack of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies sitting on the counter for him, then showed him how to play different card games to pass the time. He’d pouted at first, a luxury he was afforded only when they were alone like this, but the sweets and games soon distracted him, and hours later, the servants gently shook him awake from a dreamless sleep to inform him with bright smiles that his mother was awake and healthy and more than ready to see him. 

He’d been so excited that he’d dashed out of the kitchens, breaking one of the Elders’ rules in the process, because every second was an eternity and he couldn’t wait anymore, but after squeezing through the doors to his parent's bedroom, he realized that he didn't know what to do. The bundle in his mother’s arms looked so fragile. Was he really supposed to go anywhere near it? What if something bad happened? What if he did something wrong?

His mother’s eyes flicked up to see him hovering, paralyzed by indecision, and her lips quirked up in an amused smile. She gestured for him to come forward, and his body moved automatically, his steps stiff and mechanical until he stood by her bedside, staring at the wrinkled pink bundle cradled in his mother’s arms with open fascination. 

When he rested his chin on the mattress with a huff, his mother hid a smile behind a cupped palm, before bending to brush her lips against the baby’s brow. “Wake up, little bird,” she whispered, her breath fluttering against the new skin like the beat of a butterfly's wings, and the child squirmed, hands clenched into tiny fists. “It’s time to meet your brother.” She offered the newborn to her oldest son, who vehemently shook his head, fear present in his dark brown eyes.

“What if he gets hurt?” Hanzo murmured, so quiet his mother had to lean forward to hear, “What if I drop him?”

After reaching towards her son to tuck a stray lock of his bangs behind an ear, her heart aching when he leaned into the touch, a flower shifting its petals towards the sun. “You won’t. Hanzo, I promise you.” Gently, she circled her fingers around his wrist, then placed his palm over her chest, allowing him to feel her steady, beating heart. This was not a promise she was making lightly, but one imbued with all of the life that yet burned inside her. “You are going to be the _best_ big brother.”

Always too serious for his age, Hanzo bobbed his head in a sharp nod, determined to live up to her expectations. After carefully pulling away from her cool touch, he held out his arms in grim resignation, mouth pinched in a thin line. Suppressing a snicker at the boy who was little more than a toddler in her eyes, his mother placed the baby in his arms, allowing Hanzo to take the weight gradually until he was fully supporting his younger brother with a palm under his head and the rest tucked safely within the crook of his elbow. 

The baby was a solid weight in his arms, heavier than Hanzo’d imagined something so small could be. There was a whiff of powder tickling his nose. Hanzo adjusted his grip on the baby so he could rest the majority of its weight on the mattress, then cautiously poked its cheek, creating a shallow dip that vanished the instant he removed his finger. Baffled, he scrunched up his face. “He’s squishy.”

It was hard for him to imagine that the wrinkly, wriggling lump in his arms could ever grow to be someone he could talk or play with, but his mother laughingly assured him that it was only because Genji was so young, “which is why he’s going to need his older brother to take care of him. Do you think I can trust you with this…” A soft smile raised her lips, merriment sparking in her dark eyes, “most grave of responsibilities, Hanzo?“ And though she sagged against the pillows holding her up, there was adoration in her gaze as she watched her two sons interacting for the first time. Genji cooed, too curious about the world around him to stay grumpy at being woken for long, and curled his fingers around a lock of Hanzo’s hair. It’d been some time since his last haircut, and now it brushed his shoulders, as shimmering, healthy, and sleek as hers had once been. He frowned at the gentle tugging, working studiously to untangle the small hand with a brow furrowed in concentration. 

Having a little brother would be good for him, she was sure. Already she could see Genji worming his way into Hanzo’s heart, so it wasn't much of a surprise when Hanzo lowered his head in a solemn nod, as though she had set the entire world to rest on his shoulders. And maybe she should have said something, told him she was only teasing, but it was strangely comforting to receive such an earnest response. Although he was still a child, he was already so much like his father, proud and noble and kind. Too kind. 

The Shimada clan had needed an heir when she'd agreed to marry their father, but that was not why she had delivered a child into the suffocating darkness of the crime syndicate. She had loved too strongly, with all of her soul, and now her hope for her husband, who even now was not at her side, and for her sons, was that they protected each other, and that Genji, her youngest, her little sparrow, would be enough to keep the clan from sharpening Hanzo’s kindness into a blade. 

But until that day came when Genji was old enough to fly freely under the open skies, he would need an older brother to look after him, to show him how to survive, which was why she made no attempt to lessen the burden she’d set on her eldest’s slender frame, one that would grow as he grew, change as he did. 

She loved both her sons with a fire that burned so ferociously it consumed her from within. The doctors said it wouldn’t be long before disease took what was left, and it struck her over and over how unfair it all was. She was supposed to be their shield, the impenetrable wall standing between them and the forces that would try to corrupt or destroy them. The clan was ancient, and once, it had been noble, but it’d been infected with corruption and greed long before her husband’s reign as _kumicho_ , and now the dying branches were slowly killing the tree. 

She’d hoped becoming a father would save her husband, but now his dark eyes carried a layer of frost to them, beneath which all she could find, despite her tireless searching, was pain. 

Hanzo watched the emotions play out over her face with a puzzled expression that was open, vulnerable, and meant only for her. Once it had secretly pleased her, this hidden side of her stoic son that he allowed only her to see, but now the thought of her child living in the manor without anyone to coax a laugh or a smile from his stubborn lips filled her with dread. With his brother in his arms, Hanzo looked at her like she was his entire world - the sun, the moon, the stars, and everything between. His adoration brought tears to her eyes, because he couldn’t have known what she’d cursed him to - a life of coveting the light from the shadows. 

His childhood would end with her, she was sure of it. But Genji would usher in a new beginning. It would not be the same as before, not even close, but she had to trust that it would be enough. 

When Hanzo’s lips parted to ask if she was feeling well, she impulsively wrapped her arms around him, no longer caring for the clan’s rules. He was her child, they both were. They were hers to hold and love and nothing would stop her from doing so. Hanzo’s eyes widened at the unexpected contact, breaking her heart, and she drew him closer, refusing to relent this time. It didn’t matter who walked through her bedroom door or what they said or how much influence they held – she wasn’t letting either of her children go.

This clan had taken everything from her husband, it would not have them, too. It would not ruin the pure, untainted hearts they had together brought into the world. 

But even as she thought that, she realized the futility of it all. Very soon, she would no longer be around to protect them. 

She didn’t understand why her eldest suddenly looked so alarmed until a small hand brushed a tear from her cheek. The sight of it broke a dam inside her, calling forth a fresh wave that rolled unbidden down her face. 

Confused and a little frightened, Hanzo carefully shifted Genji to his side. “I’ll protect him.” he insisted fiercely, trying to reassure her, and panicking when it didn't seem to work, when her embrace tightened as she fought to bury the sob caught in her throat. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed to the ancestors, to the gods and dragons, that though her body may fail her and her lungs still, they would grant her one simple wish, after a lifetime in their service, and allow her to watch over her sons, so that no matter how terrible the world seemed or how alone they felt, she would always be with them. 

And if they strayed, faltered or fell, her love would never abandon them. It would buoy them, guide them, until one day, her precious sons found the happiness they deserved, and soared together in the sun’s light.

With that in mind, she chose to believe this wasn't the end, only another beginning. 

A beginning that pierced her heart like a terrible goodbye.


	14. The Rift - part 1

Silvery moonlight filtered in through lavender curtains, illuminating the crimson spreading through the once pristine sheets of a happy couple. 

It was in that room that Amelie stood silently at her husband’s side, watching him die. Still lying in their bed, Gerard struggled to stem the flow from the gash she’d carved in his throat by pressing his hands to the wound, but it wasn’t enough. His life slipped through his fingers. And she felt nothing. 

Slowly, her grip on the kitchen knife in her hand slackened, and the blade fell. Metal hit wood, resulting in a jarring din, but Gerard’s pale blue eyes, locked unflinchingly on her, never moved.

Like always, she searched his gaze for blame, for hate; for bitterness or resentment, but all she found was confusion, fear, and something else. A tenderness - a yearning to understand that her mind shied away from in an act of self-preservation.

_Amour._

Love.

It was a curse. If he had hated her, despised her, she would not wake at night with his name taking shape in the strangled scream sitting on the tip of her tongue. 

With the last of his strength, he reached for her hand, still wet with his blood, and her body moved on its own, reaching out when his arm failed to cross the distance.

He had always been strong, good, and inequitably kind, and though it was the latter two qualities that had most attracted her to him, the first certainly hadn’t diminished his chances. He’d had one of those infuriatingly low-maintenance physiques, excellent genetics and a healthy diet granting him the lean, muscled figure that seemed to come so effortlessly to him. 

They’d first met when she was still a ballet instructor at a studio in Paris, before Overwatch consumed the majority of her energy and time. It was a love that only grew with each passing conversation over coffee and pastries. By the time he’d proposed, it’d become an inseparable facet of his identity, subtle but always present in the adoringly fond way in which he watched her, the brush of his hand against her shoulder, and the concern that saturated his piercing gaze now. If he could speak past the blood in his throat, he would ask her what happened, if she was alright. 

The hand in Amelie’s grasp twitched, a light squeeze she nearly attributed to a spasm before realizing he was trying to comfort her, to warm a heart so cold it might as well have been dead. 

In reality, she waited until the startling blue eyes she’d stared into on her wedding day glazed over, until his very last heartbeat before slipping away without a sound, her palm still tingling with heat.

But in her dreams, she waits until the lungs that had breathed her name in reverence began to cool, the warmth fading from within as though the night had stolen it away. 

In her dreams, where no one could hear, she screamed.

 

She woke in a cold sweat, a scream teetering on the edge of her lips, threatening to cross from her dreams to the waking world, but she forced it down, swallowing it like a clump of nails scraping skin on the way down. The sheets were wrapped around her in a python’s grip, and she tore them off, sucking in breaths greedily with a hand pressed against her heart. Her pulse slowed quickly, a lingering trait of the conditioning Talon had put her through before the Shatterdome’s Jaeger program adopted its new criminal reformation policy, whereupon they began rounding up lost causes like her, convinced that they ought to grateful for the chance to die for something greater than themselves.

After her capture, she’d been offered the choice of either supplementing the Shatterdome’s dwindling supply of pilots, or rotting away in a jail cell until the end of her days.

She’d chosen battle. 

It was all she knew now. 

When the recruits were asked to wield bo staffs against each other to determine pilot compatibility in the Drift, she was paired with an archer – an anachronism of the time except that in the face of kaiju, no skillset was obsolete. There were no anachronisms in a world that had ceased to make sense. 

To the eyes of those observing their interplay, their spar was more of an elegant dance than a clash of wills. What Amelie lacked in knowledge of the staff she made up for with the quickness and flexibility her muscles remembered from hours upon hours spent rehearsing her dance steps to perfection, but the archer was similarly light of foot, making it difficult for either to make contact, though if she didn’t know better, she would say that Hanzo had no interest in surpassing her during the match. He had experience with the staff, of that she was certain, but instead of using it to his advantage, he adjusted to her rhythm, and their movements flowed and shifted in tandem, as though locked in conversation. 

It soon came out that he’d once been the heir to a syndicate in Japan, and the knowledge spread through the base like wildfire, resulting in scrutiny and isolation from the majority of their peers, though it was clear to anyone who attempted to befriend him that he had zero interest in forming bonds with the other pilots. He was stern to the point of alienating himself from the other ~~sacrifices~~ recruits, and colder than a barren tundra. Amelie felt sorrow in him, rage and regret writhing beneath a carefully constructed façade of calm, and found herself drawn to it. 

Having never forgotten the warmth of her husband’s touch, though it had long faded from her skin, she had no desire to feel something similar from any other man. Nor did she wish to escape into the mind of one unburdened by sin. 

That had been six months ago, before their first Drift nearly resulted in the destruction of the Shatterdome, as well as a newfound intimacy between them that grew with each passing day. 

It was due to that bond that she knew Hanzo would be standing in her doorway, watching her with concern in his dark, unfathomable eyes. He padded forward without a sound, settling fluidly beside her on the mattress.

And waited. 

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, grateful as always for the fixed point his presence provided. He could be grumpier than a dragon on his worst days, but he was grounding. She needed that. 

Her emotions were beginning to come back to her through the Drift, along with long buried memories that refused to remain so. The guilt gnawed at her, ripping off pieces of her soul, her heart, her mind. But the archer lived with a similar pain, and was able to help her through it. They kept each other sane.

She’d seen the blood of his brother dripping from the tip of a blade held with bruising strength in a white-knuckled grip. He’d seen the blood of her husband forming a puddle at her feet. They fit together, two broken pieces with nowhere else to go. 

Eventually, when her pulse had settled, her heart and lungs having slowed over time to a steady, imperturbable rhythm, she allowed herself to sag against him. He accepted the additional weight without comment or complaint, stiffening only slightly to provide her with better support. 

She tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, before exhaling softly, relaxing. “You’re cold, _mon ami_.”

The archer grunted. “Does it bother you?” He already knew what she was thinking, could feel the hint of a smile pulling at her lips, though no amount of time or rest ever seemed to dull the sniper’s predatory edge, nor the bitterness and self-loathing that belied even the softest of her expressions. 

It wasn’t their temperatures that made them compatible. If that were the case, anyone who shirked off their sheets during the cool nights in the base would be capable of partnering with her in a Jaeger. They were shattered fragments of a whole, each broken in a way that cut into anyone that came too close, and neither of them were an exception to that rule but they could withstand the pain. 

According to the head scientist’s calculations, there was three days before the next kaijiu attack, at which time they would be asked to use their regrets to fuel the fury and grace of their Jaeger, a long-range combatant bearing the name of the death goddess _Izanami_ , to save the world. 

But until then, the world could wait. 

It had left them irreparably broken, yet they would rise to save it. Again and again. Until their hearts stopped beating. 

It could allow them this semblance of peace, a brief moment of calm amidst the ever-raging storm. 

So they could rise, so they could fall, the world would wait.

* * *

They woke in darkness, each encased in separate glass cylinders with thick wires extending from their limbs. 

Immediately, they realized something was wrong. They remembered life pouring from their veins in crimson rivers, recalled the pain of a betrayal neither had expected or understood. They remembered death. And now, here they were. In a strange, unfamiliar place. Locked away underground. 

How much time had passed since they’d drawn their last breath? It was a valid question, if only because the realization came swiftly that neither of them had inhaled once since waking. There was nothing in their chests – no heart, no lungs, no blood. Even the light they picked up and their awareness of each other seemed to come from no one source, as the knowledge simply appeared in the form of updating information- 

Fact 1: They were not alone. 

Fact 2: They were not alive. 

Fact 3: At some point, they had ceased to be human. 

The doors at the other side of the room were thrown open, allowing a tall, burly man in a beanie to stride in, then abruptly slam on a fist on a switch that flooded the room with filtered light. 

They turned to the side to see each other for the first time, unsure of what to expect, and saw an omnic staring back at them, its blank faceplate forming a barrier between the outside world and the tempest of emotions roiling beneath, in ones and zeroes and empty spaces. 

A thump against the glass startled the man, who stared critically at the omnic with the pulsing green lights running over its limbs and torso. The angle of its head and hunching of its shoulders said much about its feelings on the situation it’d awoken to, but it was the silent promise of future violence that gave Reyes pause. He’d known one of the synthetic humans had been programmed with the recovered memories of the younger Shimada, but the threat carried with it something that surpassed the ire of any run-of-the-mill yakuza. And if that were the case, then maybe it’d be of use to the program, after all. 

“You both,” Reyes started, jumping straight to the point out of a sense of respect for the men the omnics had once been, “are what the UN has come to call insurance.” He stopped to let that sink in. “Upstairs, we’ve got a couple criminals piloting a weapon with the destructive capability of a nuke. They have no friends, no family, no loved ones, and the big wigs don’t buy their ‘honor amongst murderers’ schtick, so they had you commissioned. Omnics programmed with the exact neural patterns of the only people the records say those two psychopaths ever gave a damn about.”

He had their undivided attention now. There was no more pounding on the glass, only unblinking stares that sent a chill crawling down his back. Omnics were already too human, too alive. Make them think they’re human and the line between mechanized and organic suddenly blurred, to the point that an entirely new category began to take shape. 

While Reyes had never been shy about his dislike for the robots, _they_ didn’t go around wrecking buildings and eating people. Despite all his many flaws, when it came to saving the world, Marshall Gabriel Reyes had his priorities straight. 

It was the only reason he hadn’t slapped the UN with his resignation letter after finding out what they’d done to an old friend of his. It was crossing the line so utterly and completely that Reyes doubted they even remembered where it was, anymore, but he still had a job to do, and it didn’t include saving the soul of a dead man.

Still, his gaze settled on the second omnic, who’d thus far been still and quiet, either content to listen to what he had to say or resigned to the fact that it didn’t have much of a choice. When the silence began to stretch, it cocked its head slightly to the side, as though urging him to continue. 

After glancing to the side in an attempt to lessen the sense of unease the omnic’s eye slots were inadvertently causing him, Reyes cleared his throat. “Basically, worst comes to worst, you’ll be hostages.” A frown. “It’s a shit idea since they already killed you once, but what can you expect from the _pendejos_ in charge?” Making use of a flippant delivery to belie the true tragedy of government sponsorship and all the unnecessary interference it entailed usually helped to lighten the mood a little, but if anything, his tough crowd got even tougher. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, you’re both viable pilots in your own right. For as long as you are under my command, your purpose will be to lesson the neuro-burden on the guys with brains to fry, which means you’re going in a Jaeger. If you are damaged during a conflict, I will have you repaired, but if you are in danger… I will not risk the lives of my men to save a pair of spare omnics, and unless you are told otherwise, that is all you will ever be.” It was a good thing he’d planned most of this speech beforehand because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to continue. He never got a chance to know the Shimada kid, so he didn’t know if the volatile behavior was accurate, though most would react that way given the circumstances. But the other omnic was quietly studying him, storing as much information as it could to gain a better understanding of the situation before taking action, and that’s just like the man he used to know. It set off a wave of nausea in his stomach that had him biting down on the inside of his cheek so he could focus on getting the last few words out. Still, when they finally did come, they came out softer than he’d intended. 

“This is going to be difficult,” he scrubbed his brow, hating everything, “and I understand if you want revenge,” then straightened, setting his features into one of grim determination that could lead soldiers into battle, “but first we need to win this goddamn war.” He slammed a fist on a control panel, and the glass retracted into the ground. The wires holding the omnics up groaned at the additional weight as they pitched forward, then snapped off entirely, resulting in the automatons falling gracelessly to the cold tile. 

Schooling his features, the Marshall stared coldly down at them. “Any questions? 

It was the omnic based off of Hanzo’s younger brother that scrambled to its feet first, the vibrant verdant highlights in its synthetic body flaring in tandem with its anger. There was a restraint in their programming that prevented it from outright attacking, but Reyes knew well that there were always ways to get around the rules.

Before the kaijiu threatened them both into a tenuous peace, humanity’s enemy had been made of metal. 

Reyes rode out the vitriol in silence, waiting for the realization to set in that the UN had purposefully left the vocal synthesizers uninstalled, a safety measure so the omnics couldn’t inform the pilots they were meant to Drift with about their manufactured identities. 

How old had the younger Shimada been when he died? Early twenties, right?

Damn. 

“Budget cuts,” Reyes muttered when the omnic in yellow gently tapped its throat, asking the question its companion was too worked up to properly communicate. Or maybe Reyes was just getting sentimental in his old age. It wasn’t something a stiff drink would cure, but it wasn’t like it was a cure he was looking for. “Either of you want to get in a free punch, get in a Jaeger and earn it.”

He turned on his heel, then paused, before finally giving into the temptation to glance over his shoulder. Hanzo’s omnic was upright and shaking from head-to-toe, the very definition of fury contained within layers of security coding and metal. Almost against his will, his gaze settled on Amelie’s. 

It hadn’t stood yet. The omnic continued to regard him with no sign of the rage or tension that one might expect, just something akin to curiosity, a desire to figure him out as though he were a puzzle in need of solving. 

Reyes had seen that look enough times to recognize it, though his mind automatically supplied the dip between the furrowed eyebrows, the quizzical tilt. 

The next time Reyes headed towards the exit, he didn’t stop to turn around. 

 

Introductions went about as well as could be expected. 

Winston, Tracer, and Emily, the three pilots of _Kong Fury_ , warmed to them both immediately when Reyes took them to the docking station, while Zarya refused to approach them, content to glower from a distance. Her Chinese co-pilot, Mei, nudged her for her rudeness before ignoring all protests so she could jog forward to introduce herself.

“Do not mind Zarya,” she told the omnics with a gloved hand cupped around her mouth and a conspiratorial glint behind her spectacles, “she will come around.”

“I vill not!” The Russian woman huffed, arms crossed over her broad torso to emphasize the rebuttal. Mei giggled. 

Having observed their exchange, and ignoring its pair who feigned apathy to the extent that it could be mistaken for a common service bot, the omnic in yellow greeted them both by inclining its head towards each of them in a fond manner. Though the other omnic scoffed derisively at the gesture, Mei brightened, clapping her hands together in excitement. 

After a moment, Reyes urged the omnics to move along. Mei waved a cheerful goodbye to them both, though only one even attempted to match her enthusiasm.

Though no sound disturbed the air, the omnic in yellow chuckled at its companion’s consistent attempts to appear disinterested, though they were, for the most part, dreadfully unconvincing. 

When they approached the pilots of _American Anubis_ , a duo which consisted of a blond-haired, blue-eyed good ol’ boy, whose pretty face decorated the magazines in gas stations and grocery stores across the globe, and Ana Amari, a former sniper for the Egyptian Special Forces with the eye of Horus tattooed around her upper and lower lids, the Marshall stepped forward, hand raised in stilted greeting. 

Ana tutted at him. “You look like death warmed over, Gabriel.” Narrowing her eyes, she added with the vaguest hint of a threat, “Have you been working through the night again?”

Exasperated, Reyes threw his hands up. “How else am I supposed to get all my paperwork done, Amari? You think there’s enough hours in the day?!” 

Startled by the outburst, Morrison glanced up from his scrutiny of their mechanical titan’s foot, one eyebrow raised to half-way up his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, noticed the exhaustion deepening the lines cutting through his friend’s face, then closed it again and shrugged. 

Reyes pretended not to notice. “Have any of you seen Dr. Ziegler?” He jerked a thumb towards the omnics, “These two are going to be placed in her care.”

Jack made a big show of looking around for the teenaged prodigy before replying, “’fraid I don’t see her, Gabe. Guess that makes us,” Ana preemptively rolled her eyes, “Mercy- _less_.” Due to his connection with his co-pilot, he was already flinching before Ana thwacked him on the arm to save his life, though the goofy grin traveling up his cheeks was wholly unaffected.

A sharp, startled exclamation distracted Reyes from voicing the lecture on professionalism he was contract-bound to give, and they turned to see the pilots of _Wild Abandon_ playing a quick game of tag around the base of their Jaeger. Fareeha was slender and graceful in her movements, scaling the legs with a deftness brought about by familiarity and the natural strength of youth. There was a cowboy hat sitting atop her head, its brim dipping over her eyes as she dangled from the Jaeger’s knee. 

Having obviously only recently woken from a nap, Jesse McCree, the second youngest pilot on the base and known Western enthusiast, called up, “Now, I’m gonna give ya to the count of ten, girlie, to give me my hat back. One.” She stuck the tip of a pink tongue out at him, utterly unrepentant. “Alright, fine! But don’t say I didn’t warn ya!” He made it about a foot off the ground before his hands slipped, resulting in the cowboy landing on his rear in an ungainly mess of muttered profanities and flailing limbs.

Reyes didn’t know where to start, but Ana and Morrison couldn't hide their smiles and McCree was on his second attempt, so he gave up on the lecture. It’s not like a single one of them ever listened to a word he said, anyway. 

At the display, the omnic in green clapped its hands in a gesture saturated with sarcastic bite, ignoring the disapproval emanating from its companion, but Fareeha only frowned, annoyed on McCree’s behalf, while the man in question merely tipped an invisible hat with a wink that oozed his characteristic charisma. 

It was enough to offset the omnic, allowing Reyes to lead the pair to their pilots without any further interruptions. 

The pilots of _Izanami_ were locked in a simulation when they approached the cockpit. Reyes rapped his knuckles against the glass, calling an end to the exercise, before stepping back so the cover could rise with a hiss of steam. 

He waited patiently while the pair disconnected themselves from the Drift with matching, puzzled frowns. Apparently, no one had warned them about the omnics joining their team. Why was it up to him to do everything? Honestly. 

The pay for this job was so poor it was practically volunteer work, but that’s what he got for signing up to save the world with a ragtag group of goofballs and the walking nukes they used to fight. 

As always, Hanzo and Amelie adjusted to sudden emptiness replacing the other’s presence in their minds slowly, but the omnics were new information. It gave them something to focus on while they pieced themselves back together. 

Once the helmets were off and the tubes disconnected, Reyes reached in to grab their hands and help them climb out. 

This last introduction was cut short, however, when before any of them could get a word out, the omnic in green lunged for Hanzo’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon age differences don't really apply here, so here's the basic rundown mixed in with some extra info because I adore Pacific Rim au's:
> 
> Morrison/Ana are both in their mid-to-late thirties, while Reyes is in his early forties.  
> The Overwatch initiative barely kicked off before the kaijiu arrived, so Reyes never felt slighted, never joined Talon, and has spent the past few years running on fumes while struggling to keep humanity's best of survival alive. You wanted to be in charge, bud. 
> 
> Jesse was adapted into the program in his late teens. Now, he's about twenty-four, and Fareeha's fifteen. Ana made Reyes promise they would only be sent out as a last resort, so neither of them has seen much action. 
> 
> And lastly, we have Hanzo and Amelie, who are each in their early to mid-thirties. Since they're not concerned with who takes the lead, the position of dominant pilot often alternates between them, which is why their Jaeger goes by both _Izanami_ and _Izanagi_. Currently, Amelie's asserting herself as the lead during their neural bridge.
> 
> If I didn't mention anyone, assume they're the same age as they are in Post-Recall canon.


	15. Ghost in the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the Oni!Hanzo drabble.

_“Ugh.”_

Having assumed he was alone in his quarters, the exasperated groan had McCree nearly jumping out of his skin. He’d been lying on the top of the military style bunk bed he’d once shared with Hanzo, his tan leather boots propped up on the frame and back pressed against the headboard while he relaxed with a paperbook sitting on his chest. As it was, he jolted violently, nearly scraping his forehead against the ceiling as a hand flew to his side, where Peacekeeper rested snugly in its holster. 

When the groan repeated itself, however, this time longer and even more exaggerated, he realized he recognized that over-dramatic tone, and instantly relaxed. Next time this happened, though, there was going to be a supernatural entity of unimaginable power prowling around Watchpoint with a bell around his neck.

Peering over his bedframe, McCree spotted the unmistakable pale form of Hanzo Shimada flopped down on his bunk with his head buried in his pillow. The first coherent sentence out of the demon’s mouth was a strangely unmuffled, “Tell him to stop.” 

Though he didn’t quite dare to chuckle, McCree leaned back against the headboard with a wide grin,“Genji summoning you again?”

 _“Yes,”_ came the answer in the form of an emphatic hiss from below. 

McCree shook his head. If anything, the archer had brought this upon himself. “Well, maybe if you actually talked to him…” He trailed off after sensing the heated glare directed at him through the thin mattress serving as a barrier between them. 

The cowboy coughed to clear his throat, then promptly changed the subject, lest something actually catch fire. “How’re you ignoring the summons, anyway? Thought demons couldn’t do that.” 

“With great difficulty,” Hanzo gritted out, sounding pained. 

And, suddenly, the situation wasn’t quite so amusing. 

Mulling it over, McCree idly clenched a calloused fist, feeling the pulse of his own heart beat steadily against the pads of his fingers, his palms hot as though warding off a chill. “Ya can’t keep avoiding him forever, Hanzo. It ain't fair - not to him and not to you. You deserve to strut around these halls like you belong here – cuz ya do, partner – and he deserves to have ya back. For good, this time.”

There was a long stretch of silence, which McCree could only hope the demon was putting to good use by actually thinking over what he'd said. He was starting to wonder if Hanzo was waiting for him to say more, or if he'd disappeared entirely, though McCree had a feeling that wasn't the case, when the demon replied, “It has been many years since he has looked to his older brother for guidance. Not only is he no longer a child, he has others now, all of whom have far more to offer him than I ever did. He will move past this. He is... so much stronger than I.” And in those words McCree could hear the pride Hanzo had for the man Genji had become, along with the self-loathing so saturated in his personality that McCree could hardly imagine what he’d be like without it. 

“Strength’s got nothing to do with it, partner,” the cowboy said quietly, thoughtfully, thinking back to the unstable mess of human and metal he’d first met while still running with Blackwatch, the volatile cyborg that lashed out like a wounded animal at the slightest provocation. “Ya think he’ll be just fine and dandy with losing you again? More importantly - and I mean this in the best way, darlin’ – but after everything he went through to finally get his brother back, do ya even got the right to keep ‘em from him?”

It was a loaded question, he knew, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t something Hanzo needed to hear. Unfortunately, pushing the archer that far could either go really well or blow up like a stick of dynamite in his face. And when the demon bolted upright, corded muscles in his back and neck coiled, chiseled shoulder blades pressing sharply against grey, bloodless skin as though threatening to cut through it, and strode purposefully for the door, the cowboy honestly thought he’d blown it with the _oni_ , who would more than likely start shunning him now, too. 

Except Hanzo hesitated at the threshold, conflict evident in the downward curve of his pale lips, in the lowered cast of his blank, glowing eyes. “Thank you for your counsel, cowboy." With the slightest of smiles, he added, "You are wiser than many give you credit.”

To his embarrassment, McCree felt his cheeks flush slightly at the unexpected praise, but instead of addressing it, he casually brushed the knuckles of his trigger finger against his nose, which was Western-speak for, _Aw, shucks, I ain’t all that._

As though reading his mind, Hanzo huffed a gusty laugh, cool and dry as an autumn breeze. 

Since it was clear that the archer was leaving, and since McCree very much wanted to see him again without the need of a pentagram, he made sure to say something he’d been thinking about for some time, something he should have told the man so much sooner, “You’re always welcome here, Hanzo.” After opening his arms in a wide gesture that encompassed everything, McCree continued, “This here’s your room, too, after all.” And before the moment could get too mushy, he added, “But knock next time, would ya?” Lowering his voice to a grumble that he didn’t fully intend for the demon to hear, he finished out of the side of his mouth with a muttered, “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”

Having clearly heard him, Hanzo curled his lips back in a toothy grin, flashing a mouth full of fangs at the cowboy, before taking another step towards the threshold, after which, quickly as he’d come, he vanished, leaving nothing but swirling smoke and the musty scent of dried leaves behind.

 

_It wasn’t meant to happen. Not like this._

_It should have been him. It always should have been him._

_Not Genji. Not his little brother. Not again._

_It was Dr. Ziegler and Winston who gave him the news that an abandoned building Genji had been merely passing through while evading enemy fire collapsed after the impact of a mortar shell destabilized its structure. There hadn’t been enough time for him to escape before four stories of concrete came crashing down on his head._

_Upon recovery, they found his metal armor mostly intact, which had cruelly given them hope, only to find that what little organic tissue he’d possessed had either been compressed by the weight of the debris piled on top of him or ruptured._

_The cessation of brain activity recorded by his synthetic body after the collapse suggested that death had been instant, but standing in the medical bay, his gaze transfixed by the sight of his little brother lying battered, cold and unnaturally still on the gray observation table, Hanzo could take little comfort in it, for he knew that this death was as premature as it was undeserved._

_And so he sought out Ana Amari, a woman who had cheated Death once before, who proudly wore the Eye of Horus around her left eye, because if one could have the foresight to ward off evil, then they must have believed in its existence. If the Angel of Mercy couldn’t bring his brother back, then Hanzo would look to other, darker forces to do it._

_The old sharpshooter had listened to his request without interruption, her weathered features, still carrying traces of the youthful beauty she’d had as a girl, now elegant in their severity, were unexpressive with the exception of a slight dip between her brows._

_Death had chewed up Gabriel Reyes and spat him back out, but it seemed to have gotten a taste for Genji Shimada, as though collecting on a debt he’d incurred over a decade before._

_The boy, she decided, deserved a second chance._

_Despite any misgivings she may have had, she drew out a summoning circle for Hanzo, wrote a list of the ingredients he would need to complete the ritual, and mentioned that he would need something that had once belonged to the deceased, something of great personal value that yet contained a remnant of their essence._

_That same night, before the funeral, Hanzo snuck into the med bay, moving soundlessly across the tiled floor until he stood once more by the metal slab his brother’s body laid upon, and unlatched the protective green visor to reveal the scarred features of the man beneath the armor, a face so familiar Hanzo nearly gave away his presence when the start of an anguished cry slammed against his tightly pressed lips._

_With the visor in hand, he absconded from the sterile clinic as quietly as he’d arrived, lithe and silent as a panther creeping through the jungle, until he returned to the pentagram he’d drawn in the training room, to the spell waiting to be cast._

_He called upon the demon that had once dogged Jesse’s steps, demanded it appear before him now, when its presence was finally desired, and yet, for the longest time, nothing happened._

_Incense burned down to their wooden nubs, the curling smoke dissipating as Hanzo continued to call the creature, fully intending to pester and harass the demon until it showed itself. When more time passed, however, he changed tactics._

_Becoming very quiet after calling and imploring for the demon’s aid for over an hour, he fell to his knees, then bowed, curving his spine until his forehead nearly rested against the cool linoleum flooring. “Please,” his pride spent, the only thing left to do was beg, “help me bring my brother back...” He exhaled softly, allowing a single truth to settle heavily over his heart, one he had scarcely permitted himself to think until this point, let alone say aloud, for fear that it would truly and irreparably break him. “He is all I have.”_

_The seconds of silence that met his words stretched into minutes, yet Hanzo remained still, refusing to raise his head. There was no back-up plan, no second chances or miracles waiting in the wings. If the demon did not appear now, then Hanzo knew he would never be able to move past this moment._

_It was when his neck and back began to ache, the muscles in his thighs protesting from maintaining the seiza for so long, with sweat gathering at the tip of his nose, that a cruel, lilting voice emerged from within the pentagram, “Now that’s a good attitude.” Hanzo jolted, wincing when his body protested at the sudden movement after an agonizingly long stretch of immobility. He raised his head sharply to see the bald, black-skinned coyote staring back at him, its teeth curled back from its fangs. Sunken yellow eyes, glittering with intelligence and malice, remained fixed on him as it continued, “And about time, too. I was starting to get bored.” It didn’t seem to be lying, yet there was hunger evident in the ribs protruding from its chest that undermined the claim. For whatever reason, it was starving, yet Hanzo did not doubt that the pentagram was all that stood between him and a gruesome, violent death._

_It could have waited for hours if it’d wanted to – there were always other deals, other humans to manipulate and deceive –but Hanzo didn’t regret his actions. He’d have held the uncomfortable seiza position for days if that was what it took, so long as the demon made good on its word._

_Skipping pleasantries, Hanzo dove straight to the heart of the matter, “In exchange for everything I have to offer, bring Genji Shimada back to life. Heal him, and you will have me.”_

_The demon barked its amusement in a grating fit of laughter. “And what would I want with you?” It jerked its rubbery, tar-black neck to the side in a mockery of an inquisitive tilt. “What makes you think your tarnished soul is of any worth to me?”_

_It was a fair enough question, one for which Hanzo held no answer, as he shared in the belief that his own soul was of little value, and yet, “Then perhaps I should endeavor to employ the services of another demon?” The archer bore his teeth in a bitter smile that stretched across his face like a wound cut into the flesh. “Surely, not all would be so quick to spurn this tarnished soul of mine.”_

_“And what exactly are you offering, human?” Sitting back on its haunches, the demon licked the edges of its mouth with a tongue split cleanly down the middle. “With such loose terms, I could take so much more than your soul.”_

_“Then do it,” Hanzo challenged, unafraid. “I don’t care. Fulfill your end of the bargain and I will fulfill mine. What is mine to give is yours to take.”_

_Something shifted beneath the demon’s skin – a muscle, perhaps – leaving Hanzo with the distinct impression that the creature was honestly irritated, though at who or what he didn't know. It studied him silently for a moment, before its body relaxed, its shoulders drooping as it raised its head, averting its gaze when it finally replied with exhaustion and a note of what Hanzo assumed to be disappointment saturating its tone, “…You are foolish, indeed, but it is done. Your brother will be returned to you when the sun’s first ray strikes the earth.”_

_Within his chest, Hanzo’s heart swelled and soared, yet he carefully smoothed his expression, keeping himself composed even if he could not completely strip the resulting brightness from his dark brown eyes, “And the price?”_

_Thinking back, the look the demon fixed him with then could almost have been described as pitying, “Do not fret, human. You will know when the debt is paid.”_

_As the abomination began to fade, becoming translucent as it shifted through many forms – a grey-skinned hunter, a mother with sunken cheeks, a genderless child with long, black locks that hung like thick curtains around a pale, skull-like face, and then back to the starving, mangy coyote, its yellow eyes bulging and bloodshot - Hanzo’s dragons writhed beneath his skin, panicked as though thrust into the path of a forest fire, yet the archer paid them no heed. Now that the deal had been struck, it was too late to think about the consequences. Though he resolved to face them when they presented themselves, whatever form they may take, it was with a distracted resolve, as the majority of his focus was consumed by the scream of every instinct urging him to climb to his feet and sprint to the infirmary. Even so, he stayed to make certain that the demon was truly gone before pulling himself shakily to a standing position, after which he broke the chalk’s circle with the heel of his sandal, preventing any other such abominations from slipping through the cracks of the window he’d created._

_Time itself seemed to slow as he waited, each passing second more agonizing than the last, until somehow Hanzo knew with a certainty that slammed against his skull with the weight of a spiked mace that the sun was hovering directly below the horizon, that any moment its light would strike the earth, and he was running, unsure of when he’d even made the conscious decision to do so, or if he even had. The fluorescent cylinders illuminating the barren hallways he streaked through flickered, creating a strobe effect that consistently threw ominous shadows into his path, shadows which he barreled through without a second glance._

_It’s not until he’s standing outside the infirmary, chest heaving beneath his blue gi, hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, that he allowed himself the luxury of wondering what he would do if the only thing waiting for him on the other side of that threshold was a rapidly cooling corpse._

_A dark impulse whispered that if the demon did not uphold its end of the bargain, then he would find it once more, put an end to its miserable life, and then find somewhere isolated, a place where no prying eyes would ever find or mourn him, and join his brother. It was his duty as the eldest to look after him, after all. Such things did not end, not even after death._

_But a quiet, surer, and perhaps, moderately mechanized voice countered that such an action would not be for Genji’s sake, but his own, as Genji would have wanted him to stay, to protect his friends, to make sure they were safe._

_And so, regardless of what waited for him on the other side of that door, he would._

_Though he would certainly despise every second of it._

_Cursing his own cowardice - and not just for lingering outside the infirmary like a child in need of comfort, but for being too lax, too slow, too proud to save his brother from death a second time – he pushed against the door with the flats of both his palms, hyperaware of the grain pressing against the pads calloused from years of perfecting his aim…_

_It swings open too quickly. It only takes an eternity._

_And then he’s standing in the doorway, staring, helplessly transfixed by the sight of Genji sitting up on the observation table without the visor Hanzo carried within his grasp, revealing a scarred brow and shimmering brown eyes with flecks of gold around the iris as he rotated his cybernetic limbs over and over, overcome by wonder and sheer disbelief at the life still thrumming within them._

_He sensed Hanzo’s presence before the archer recovered enough to approach, and turned to face him, a question he didn’t quite know how to ask sitting at the forefront of his mind, because even though it was impossible, even though his older brother wasn’t a doctor or a healer that could bring back the dying from the brink, something deep inside Genji knew that, somehow, Hanzo had been the catalyst for this miracle, had brought him back._

_“Hanzo,” there was a sharp intake of breath, just short of a cry, and then strong, gentle arms wrapped around the cyborg, and his dulled sense of smell picked up on traces of chalk and smoke, and he buried his head in it, shaking._

_He had died once more, become nothing, but though the chill of death still sat heavily in his thoughts, in his body, Hanzo’s embrace was warm, his grip was firm, solid, an anchor to hold him steady against the crash of conflicting emotions threatening to drag him down, and it was enough._

_He would stay._

 

_Their next embrace was after Hanzo made the mistake of instinctively moving in front of a bullet to shield his younger brother, recalling too late that, unlike himself, Genji did not fight unprotected._

_He cursed himself for his own stupidity as gravity took hold, replacing the emptiness his departing strength had left behind with an irresistible weight, and he fell, backwards, into the cybernetic arms of his brother._

_It was a stupid death worthy of a stupid man, but taking place in the company of one who was far more than he deserved. And Genji begged him to stay, desperately pleaded with emotions that pushed through the limitations of a vocal filter equipped for the purposes of a weapon and a tool. Not the man that was both, and none of it, and much, much more._

_As he laid his head against his brother’s chestplate, allowed his weary lids to slip closed as he listened to the too fast thump of his brother’s heart, Hanzo regretted leaving him, regretted so much, yet he took some comfort in knowing that Genji would recover from his loss. He had a new family now, one which would protect him, and support him in ways his own blood never had._

_Satisfied that Genji would overcome this, as he had done so much else, and confident that he had, at long last, earned his redemption, Hanzo reached for peace. For rest._

But it was not to be.

_The shadows behind his eyes, in the darkest recesses of his mind, came alive to swarm his soul, wrap around it like a barrier that no light or heat could ever hope to penetrate._

_When next he woke, it was to find a headstone sitting at the edge of the cliff outside Watchpoint, its smooth, black marble surface interspersed with shimmering flecks of a blue that had been carefully chosen to emulate the radiant azure of his dragons’ scales._

_Beneath a gray, overcast sky, he traced the letters of his name with a hooked nail, noticed for the first time the bloodless pallor of his skin, and knew without quite knowing how he knew that beneath the soon to be dampened and compacted earth, rested the body of Hanzo Shimada._

_Brother._

_Friend._

_Proud member of Overwatch._

_All at once, the dark clouds above, filled to the point of bursting, unleashed their burden upon the earth. He tilted his head towards the sky, looked straight into the downpour…_

_And felt nothing._

 

When it came to a summoning ritual, the value of the sacrifice was determined by the demon itself. This meant that every potential summoner was required to attain at least some knowledge of the demon they wished to call upon, otherwise the ritual would be unfocused, acting as a portal through which any bottom-feeding cretin could crawl through. 

Hanzo stopped outside the training room with the scent of incense clogging his nostrils and sake on his breath. Without even stepping inside, he knew that Genji now sat where he once had, pulsing a soft green in the makeshift gym’s dim lighting. It’s not the first time he’d called Hanzo to the corporeal plane nor, Hanzo suspected, would it be the last. It was, however, the first time Hanzo had chosen to seek him out instead of waiting for the deal to expire, which could take hours, since the value assigned by the archer to each of the items Genji offered to the ritual only increased over time. 

From the looks of things, Genji seemed to be meditating. His legs were crossed in the lotus position, fingers interlocked and lying relaxed in his lap. If not for the restless buzzing emanating from within the cyborg, as well as a growing discontent only a demon could sense, Hanzo might have even been fooled.

Swallowing down the press of new instincts that urged him to pinpoint the weakness and sink his fangs into it until a deal was made, and a fresh soul wriggled between his claws, Hanzo raised a fist to bang on the steel door and announce his presence, but the temptation to simply leave, to keep avoiding the issue by forgoing any contact with his brother, crashed over him. 

He knew well that Genji would not have persisted in these summonings if he did wish for this meeting, and yet…

Hanzo sunk the tip of a fang into his lower lip, drawing out a liquid that was too pale, too watery to be blood, but the shock of pain was enough to steel his resolve, and he stepped through the door, trusting that Genji’s desire to see him would outweigh any concern for propriety. 

Before Hanzo’s sandaled foot had fully touched the clean wooden planking of the training room’s floor, the cyborg twitched, tilted his head ever so slightly, as though struggling to place the melody of a half-remembered song, then spun in a streak of neon color to fix the demon with his unwavering gaze. 

In the face that intensity, Hanzo suddenly found himself speechless. He hadn’t thought so far ahead as to prepare what he was going to say, though he realized now that he should have, but most of all, he longed to see the scarred and weathered face beneath the mask, the expressive brown eyes that could shift from warm to hard and cold with frightening speed – What emotions did they show now?

With a quiet cough that was more out of residual human habit than need, the demon raised a clawed hand in awkward greeting.

He did not know what to expect, nor could he bring himself to move another step forward, and so he watched, silent, as Genji pushed himself to his feet, a subtle tremor running through his limbs, and turned to stride toward him, hands held loosely at his sides, movements fluid with an edge of harshness. 

Holding his body still, Hanzo suppressed a flinch when Genji closed the distance between them, stopping only when he was close, so close, too close, and disconcertingly quiet. Vents unleashed a cloud of steam. Hanzo blinked. 

And a metal fist slammed against his cheekbone, jerking his head backwards with a force that could have broken a human’s neck, though his feet remained rooted to the ground, and Hanzo recovered, fangs bared in a snarl that died when Genji threw his arms around him. Now that Genji’s cybernetic body, warmed by the recent release of his vents, rested against his cold chest, Hanzo could feel the shudders, the hitch of choked emotion that swelled beyond words, the relief and hurt and anger threatening to drown them both.

Slowly, so as not to startle, he rested his clawed hands on his little brother’s back, pressing gently, and held him steady until the shudders gradually began to fade.


	16. Of Ink & Sweet Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _irezumi_ \- the Japanese name for the traditional tattoos that Yakuza members get.

On the eve of Hanzo’s seventeenth birthday, the clan’s most esteemed _irezumi_ artist, an elderly man most often referred to by the family name, Yamanaka, led him to a secluded and scantily furnished room on the fourth floor. Windows that stretched to the high, arced ceiling were boarded up, the walls were bare, and the only pieces of furniture, a cracked leather chair that smelled of mothballs, a stool, and the pathetically flimsy table standing beside it, were each placed in the dead center of the room. 

Though Yamanaka had never been a large man, his many years of service to the Shimada Clan weighed on him, and so he walked with a hunch, one that was particularly noticeable when contrasted with the rigid posture of the young heir standing beside him as they strolled past the rotted, sagging doorframe. 

It was abandoned, left uncared for and uninhabited, so that those forced to spend a moment within would feel as though they, too, had been left to rot and disintegrate with time. 

Thinking back to when he’d once stood in the same room with Hanzo’s father, who’d sported a similar distasteful scowl at the venue, if memory served, the old man fought back a nostalgic smile as he gestured to the seat. “Whenever you are ready, bocchan.” 

With a quiet sigh, the young man corrected him with as much patience as he could manage, “It is Hanzo- _sama_ now, Yamanaka-san.”

"Of course. How could I forget?"

While Hanzo settled himself into the seat, which he found to his increasing displeasure had deteriorated to a weak, spongy texture, Yamanaka arranged the vials of blue dye he’d placed on the tray, each varying in depth and brightness, from the swirling depths of the ocean floor to the wide open sky on a summer’s day, and tested the sharpness of the bamboo needle by pressed a calloused finger against its point to ensure that it would pass easily through even the toughest patches of skin. The process would prove to be an unavoidably long and trying one, but Yamanaka had been perfecting his technique for decades now - he was confident that if he could not spare the young heir from the pain, then he could at least ensure that the procedure required only the bare minimum of sessions, and the healing process proceeded smoothly, so long as the boy did his part and resisted the urge to pick at the peeling, itching skin before it was ready. 

There were stacks of rice wrapped in seaweed beneath the table and single bottle of _sake_ to sustain them. Hanzo could tell that Yamanaka would have liked to pour himself a cup or two, but the first session would undoubtedly last for many hours, with the intricate outline alone taking a minimum of three, and thus he could not avoid to tire.

The long sessions and limited resources were quite obviously yet another test of the young heir’s fortitude and endurance, which meant that any lapse in Hanzo's resolve could spell disaster if the elders caught wind of it. Yamanaka may not have been an elder, but that was of his own choosing, and should the safety of his family ever be threatened - though who would foolhardy enough to dare do such a thing to a close family friend of the current _kumicho_ was a conundrum for another time - Hanzo was sure that Yamanaka would part with readily his secrets. He’d do what he had to to protect his family, as he had over and over in the past. Although he was rarely involved in the less savory aspects of the clan's business, it would not be hyperbole to say that their safety quite often depended on the quality of his work. 

For this reason, Hanzo remained very still while the cool antiseptic was applied to the first patch of bare skin that would be pierced and dyed, and fully intended to maintain that stillness for the entirety of the grueling session, without any reprieve unless Yamanaka himself began showing signs of fatigue. 

Test or no test, exhaustion would not dull the old man’s skills. Hanzo would make sure of it.

The teen was startled out of his thoughts when the damp cloth on his arm withdrew, leaving the flesh feeling fresh and tingly, and Yamanaka, with the bamboo needle in his knarled wrinkled hand prepped and coated with ink, commented offhandedly, “Forgive me, but I could have sworn I’d heard my granddaughter refer to you as Ha-chan just the other day.” The young heir felt his cheeks flush pink at the reminder of the girl who’d visited the manor with her grandfather several weeks ago to arrange for this very appointment. She’d tugged at his pants' leg until he’d softened enough to pick her up, after which she’d grabbed fistfuls of his long hair, and playfully attempted to arrange it into pigtails. Seeing the memory play out over Hanzo’s once stoic features, the old man smiled wryly, “You know how feeble this old mind has grown with age.”

Of course, if it was sympathy the aging artist was looking for, then he would have to look elsewhere. Hanzo, who carried no false notions regarding the keen sharpness of his mind, grumbled, “Regardless of what you may think of me, I am not so strict as to demand proper address from an infant.”

“Come now,” the old man tutted goodnaturedly, “little Yuki’s been using the bathroom on her own for several months now. She’s practically a lady.” He rolled the sleeve of Hanzo’s orange _gi_ further up his arm, then fastened it with a short length of rope to ensure that it didn’t get in the way while he worked. 

“Well, if she’s toilet-trained,” Hanzo muttered, suppressing a wince at his first taste of the poking, piecing, burning sensation that started at his bicep and worked its way down, “then perhaps she should be offered a seat on council. She's certainly fulfilled the minimum requirements.” Though he had little experience with the inking process, something told him it stung more than it should. It wouldn’t have surprised him if, on top of the drafty, run-down surroundings and limited resources, the elders had demanded that Yamanaka make this process as painful as possible. 

He looked up to see the elder’s thick, untamed brows furrowed to the point of almost touching, worry etching itself into the wrinkles around his mouth and squinted eyes like black paint highlighting the cracks and imperfections in a weathered stone. “I would be wary of what you say, Hanzo-sama. Even the walls have ears in places as old as this.” 

Which was another way of saying that the room was not nearly as isolated from the clan as Hanzo had been led to believe. Even at this important juncture of his life, he was still being manipulated, and not by his enemies, but by those he was meant to lead. Sure, they hadn’t explicitly told him they would be alone while this procedure was underway, but the implication had been undeniable. Why else would he be locked in this drafty, damp chamber with a man who, as the minutes turned to hours, was forced to grip his hand by the wrist so that it would remain still despite the tremors wracking his form? 

Hanzo had long accepted that his strength and mind would forever be tested, but Yamanaka had already lived a long and fruitful life. There was no need to drag him into the politics of the Shimada. Years of working with the family had gifted him with enough funds to support himself and his family any way he wished, yet he chose to spend his days in the parlor, where copies of the designs he was proudest of lined the walls, alongside rows of haphazardly pinned photos of his treasured children and grandchildren. 

If Hanzo could have called this whole farce off and administered the ink himself, he would have. But he couldn’t, and he knew well who would suffer if he tried.

With that in mind, though the intensity of Hanzo’s discomfort only increased over time, as the inflamed, irritated skin was pierced over and over to perfectly capture the depth and majesty of each of the azure dragon’s scales, his resolve merely hardened. He forced his lids to remain open until the wetness threatening to spill dried, and choked on the desperate plea for reprieve lodged in his throat.

He swiveled his head to meet eyes with Yamanaka, who he realized must have been reaching his limit, too. No longer shivering, he now sported beads of sweat across his forehead, moved stiffly when he bent to replenished the ink, and increasingly took the time to flex his stiff fingers with a grimace. 

They had lapsed into a strained silent when Yamanaka asked if Hanzo would be interested in hearing a rather nonsensical thought he’d just had. And, well, since the floating dust motes were making for a rather poor distraction from the stabbing pain of the needle and the incessant burning in his flesh, Hanzo readily agreed.

After swiping impatiently at the perspiration dotting his forehead and readjusting himself on his stool, the old man muttered softly, never taking his eyes off the delicate scales and claws forming beneath his hands, “A man takes his dog out for a walk. After a short time, the dog turns right. And so, the man turns right, as well. Soon after, the dog turns left. Naturally, the man follows. By the time the walk has ended, the dog believes itself to be the master.” The needle withdrew. Yamanaka set to work on cleaning the area of blood droplets and excess ink. He sounded almost distracted when he asked, “Would you agree?”

Immediately, Hanzo replied, “No.”

And the old man leaned back, rubbing his grizzled jaw with an arced brow. “And why not?”

“It is the master who holds the leash.” Too easy. There had to be a catch. 

There always was.

“Well, Hanzo-sama? Would you say _you_ hold a leash?”

After hearing that, Hanzo audibly ground his teeth. 

Why? Why would Yamanaka wait until after he’d delivered a warning about the room's surveillance to say something that would not only be deemed impertinent by those listening in, but borderline treasonous? If the elders were looking for a reason to prosecute him, then the old man had practically handed it to them on a silver platter. They could take away his family, his business, even his life, and there would be nothing Hanzo could do to stop them-

Oh. 

With the realization, came a humiliation that burned more fiercely than the ink itching beneath his skin.“I was wrong about you, Yamanaka-san,” the young heir bit out. “Old age _has_ addled your mind.”

“Is that so?” The old man said coolly, apparently unfazed. “Then I suppose you must inform the elders that I am no longer fit to complete such important tasks as this.” The needle's relentless poking and prodding resumed once Yamanaka had finished testing the black ink’s viscosity. It would still be quite a while before the several vials of blue were touched. “Certainly, they will have no trouble finding a younger man to replace me.”

For once, Hanzo wanted to take a note from his brother’s playbook and act impulsively. To let his emotions burst free from the cages he’d stuffed them into and run wild. He wanted to pull at his hair, throw his head back and scream his uncertainty and frustration to the sky.

But Hanzo couldn't pretend, not even for a moment, that he was anyone except the heir of a very old, very powerful organization. That was how good people got hurt. That was how good people died. 

And so he seethed in silence, ignoring the cold spreading throughout the bottom of his stomach. Even if Hanzo held any desire whatsoever to disabuse the old man of the notion that he would be so petty as to condemn him for the slight, he didn’t know how. He didn’t have Genji’s easy way with people, and he certainly didn't have his heart. 

A murmuring through the door that sounded too high, too youthful to belong to either of the guards, distracted them both from the conversation, something for which Hanzo was unendingly grateful, though he would much rather wear a crown of molten lava upon his head than admit it. 

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” one of the guards told the new arrival, put-upon patience saturating the words. In his mind’s eye, Hanzo could see the guard’s slight, grudging bow. “Our orders are to-“ He wasn’t surprised when the same youthful voice, this time ringing with authority, cut him off. 

“ _My_ orders are from my father.” There was a moment where neither of the guard’s spoke, but Hanzo had to assume that their expressions spoke volumes, because Genji’s next words were a flat, “You don’t believe me.”

“Two roads lie before you, gentlemen," he continued. "The first is you go to my father, interrupting his very busy schedule to call his son a liar, and the second is you let me pass without a fuss, I bring poor old Yamanaka-san a blanket, as well as this steaming cup of hot chocolate, made with my own special recipe, and everyone walks away with a smile.” With what was sure to be a cheeky wink, the teen added with the flair and flourish of a natural-born showman, “Play your cards right here, and there might even be some sweet hot chocolate in it for you, too.” 

“Just,” and though the guard pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion wouldn't have made a sound, Hanzo nonetheless had a perfect mental image of the act, and suddenly found himself sympathizing with the man, “get in there.” Genji certainly didn’t need to be told twice. He was already opening the door when the guard snapped, “And you better not let anyone catch you.” 

After hearing that, Hanzo realized that not even the guards had been made aware of the audio surveillance the elders had installed within the room. On the one hand, it meant that the intrusion was not a secret kept solely from him, but on the other, it was worrying how isolated the council was proving to be in both its decisions and its actions. If they could break tradition to spy, with only a select few the wiser, then what else could they be capable of accomplishing from the shadows?

Once Genji was inside, a grey blanket thrown over his shoulder and two mugs of hot chocolate steaming in his hands, the second guard said to the first, “You’re too soft on that boy.”

“Yeah? I didn’t hear you saying no.”

Though they couldn’t see him, Genji turned back towards the exasperated pair with a grin.

He looked like a delinquent. For his thirteenth birthday, their father had allowed him to pierce the upper cartilage of his left ear with a silver hoop. As for his outfit, the school uniform he’d been wearing when he left that morning was conveniently missing, replaced by a ripped vest with frayed sleeves, bleached jeans, and glaringly white sneakers. 

The coup de grace was the seaweed green bandanna tied around his head. Hanzo didn’t know what to make of it, but he doubted it served a purpose, besides making his little brother look even more patently ridiculous than usual.

A draconic growl boiled past Hanzo’s clenched teeth at the boy’s approach. “Why are you here? You know you should be at school.” 

And for a moment, Genji hesitated, thrown off by the potency of the anger and disapproval directed at him, but he visibly shrugged it off, after which he continued his approach with a renewed lightness in his step and an easy grin. “Someone had to make sure you had a hand to hold during this torture fest.” Since there was no extra chair available for him to sit in, he opted to stand beside Yamanaka. He held the blanket draped over his forearm within the older man’s reach, and the artist accepted it gratefully, throwing it over his lap so that the fabric did not interfere with his movement. Then Genji handed him a mug of rich hot chocolate, made with steamed milk and a hint of cinnamon to give it just a hint of a kick, and the old man blew out an amused huff that buffeted the black and silver whiskers around his mouth and on his chin like a breeze sweeping through a forest. 

Though the sight brought with it a wave of approval and – dare he say it? – pride for his younger brother’s thoughtfulness, the comparison he’d made previously had him struggling not to roll his eyes... and failing. Despite his training and dedication, Hanzo’s self-control had its limits. “It’s _supposed_ to be unpleasant, Genji. It’s tradition.” Despite what he’d said, though, Hanzo accepted the mug of hot chocolate Genji placed in his hand. There was roughly enough space on the small table holding the tools to set it down, so Hanzo let it rest there for the time being, reluctant as he was to move too much when a twitch or sneeze could end with truly dire consequences. 

Canting his spiked head to the side, Genji batted his lashes, asking innocently, “What? You don’t think I can be unpleasant?”

With a tone that could only be described as bone-dry, Hanzo replied, “Are you, perhaps, suggesting that there are times when you are anything but? Because I would very much like to see them.” And at their side, Yamanaka snorted, though he did his best to disguise the sound by pausing in his work long enough to indulge in a rather unconvincing fit of coughing. 

After a quick roll of his eyes, Genji crossed his arms, regarding his brother with a half-hearted scowl, “Shut up and drink your hot chocolate, _anija._ ”

Begrudgingly, Hanzo did he was told, if only to hide the traitorous curl at the corners of his lips in the sweetness and foam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the tattoo peels like a bad sunburn when it's healing, there must have been a few weeks where Hanzo left blue skin flakes everywhere. Knowing that, I'm now imagining Genji complaining about Hanzo's shedding like he's some kind of grumpy blue cat.
> 
> I have one more update in mind before I get to work on the 2nd half of the Overwatch au, so until then, thank you for reading, and have a great day!


	17. Atlantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update was inspired by a scene at the end of the last Hunger Games movie, because I couldn't help but think of Hanzo and Amelie every time I thought about it.

The arrow whizzed past its intended target, it’s razor-edged shaft brushing so close it left a shallow groove upon the omnic’s metallic cheek. Hanzo straightened from his crouched position on the rooftop’s edge as the Shambali monk was led away from the podium by his entourage and herded backstage, where he would undoubtedly be shoved into a waiting vehicle with tinted windows and bullet-proof glass. 

With their cover blown, there was no choice left but to call the mission off.

How unfortunate.

“You missed.” 

Annoyed by the intrusion, Hanzo glanced over his shoulder to see the deadly assassin known as Widowmaker standing several yards behind him, displaying a deceptively relaxed posture that betrayed no more emotion than the apathetic set of her angular jaw. Once, she might have been a model or a dancer, but that was another life. Talon had taken her natural beauty, and weaponized it, turned it cruel as the moth’s flame. 

Keenly aware of her icy gaze following his every move, Hanzo kept his heartrate and breathing even as he slung the bow over a shoulder, and rose to his feet, still facing the edge, “It happens to the best of us.”

When he finally turned, it was to find her still staring at him, unblinking, her expression inscrutable. “But not to you.”

He waited for her to continue, wondering idly if she was going to report him to Reaper. If Talon was given any reason to suspect that his reprogramming was faulty or ineffective, then they would either wipe him clean and try again, erasing anything left of Hanzo Shimada in the process, or they would dispose of him. 

Either way, he didn’t much care.

When the assassin finally did speak, however, what came was a request far from what he’d imagined, “Will you do it again?”

 

Even working together, they couldn’t sabotage every mission.

Someone would begin to suspect if two of the world’s best snipers began missing their targets on a regular basis, but often they aimed to injure, to graze, and sometimes it was enough. Sometimes their quarry was granted the miracle of living another day. 

One day – long enough to double their security for some, long enough to visit their families for others, long enough to say goodbye. 

Or that was what Hanzo would have liked to believe, but something deep within him whispered that when it came to those close to the heart, no amount of time could ever be enough.

When it came down to it, though, such sentimental motivations were simply beyond them. Every botched mission, every do-gooder allowed to spread their message of hope and peace was as good as spitting in the face of those who held them prisoner within their own minds. Due to having been groomed his entire life for combat and cruelty, Hanzo found himself scraping desperately against the small and jagged corners of his skull for any semblance of remorse after each successfully completed mission. There was a part of him that welcomed the killing, the challenge of it, the test of his skills, as though the lives cut short by his arrows meant nothing at all. And yet, it was his pride that prevented him from growing complacent under the control of another. Though his mind and heart had been warped beyond recognition, his spirit refused to bow. 

Before his capture, Hanzo had been a vagabond, a gun-for-hire who’d spent his days settling stranger’s vendettas and petty strifes, until a cyborg claiming to be his brother urged him to pick a side. It was difficult to recall what happened after that night, as his memories seemed to blur and blend into an unrecognizable struggle, many hands holding him down, cool metal cutting through his wrists. There was a single painful prick, a sting as some cool liquid was pumped through his veins.

Then he was on a rooftop. Aiming to take down his first target. 

And missed. 

He was punished, of course. Thick, ropy welts crisscrossing his broad back remained for many weeks, a testament to his failure, yet he counted himself lucky. This life of reward and punishment was not foreign to him, he slid into it easily enough, but Amelie, a woman he began to think of as a partner of sorts, had once been a young girl in love. They’d turned her against her friends, her family, and forced her to murder the man she’d looked forward to spending the rest of her life with. As much as Talon had taken from him, they had taken a thousand-fold from her, but they could not take her hate, and so she hated the organization with every cell of her body. Every ounce of her blood was poisoned with it. 

No, they didn’t endanger their missions to save lives. They did it to spite the ones responsible for stealing theirs. 

Gradually, they fell into a rhythm: a few successful assassinations, abductions, and thefts, followed by someone mysteriously triggering the alarm, alerting security to the sniper’s position before they could complete the objective. What would have been suspicious with only one of them was suddenly possible with two. 

It was after one of those missions that Hanzo, after intentionally hesitating before taking his shot, a beat of precious time which, combined with the anonymous tip the security _might_ have received about an attempt on her life, allowed Yuki Chen, a young and ambitious politician quickly rising up the ranks of her government, to return home to her daughter that night, that he felt the brush of Amelie’s cool fingers against his shoulder’s bare skin. He glanced up to see her watching the commotion with an expression he hadn’t believed her capable of until that moment. Looking down to meet his gaze with a subtle quirk to her lips, she answered the unspoken question with an uncommonly gentle gaze, “Let us return, _mon ami_.” 

Although their partnership only grew stronger over time, to the point where they made each other promise - that should their efforts to subvert Talon’s control be discovered, and they were expected to be imprisoned or changed once more, that they would each do whatever it took to take the other’s life. The world had never shown them mercy, and so it was up to them to bestow it upon themselves. But rumors soon began to spread about Talon’s new sniper, an archer who bore the likeness of a wrathful dragon spiraling around his right arm, and with them, came Overwatch. 

A three-man team, consisting of Hanzo, Widowmaker, and Reaper, were sent to put an end to a reported leak in Talon’s intel. Whether the traitor had experienced a change of heart after finding out first hand that the terrorist organization was capable of anything when it came to achieving their goal – profiting from the spread of fear, violence, and hate – or had always been a double agent, not a single one of them cared. More than likely, the soldier had already shared any valuable information he’d possessed with Overwatch or the authorities, so even keeping him alive was pointless. 

They chased his cyber-trail to Nepal, found him in a cheap, dilapidated hotel he’d paid for in cash. Sombra had eyes on the streets, in the hallways and airports and train stations. With her around, there was no hiding.

If the traitor had truly wanted to live, he shouldn’t have stopped running. 

From his perch on a ledge several buildings away, Hanzo could make out the blurry outline of the deserter sitting listlessly on the side of his bed. The threadbare curtains around his window were partially drawn, resulting in a mere sliver of clear visual, but Hanzo knew that Amelie and Reaper were positioned at the exits. Even if the initial shot failed due to the fabric getting in the way, or if the arrow missed any vital organs, and the solider tried to run, he would only find them waiting to finish the job.

A quiet, nearly inaudible shifting in the gravel behind him alerted Hanzo to the presence of an unaccounted for adversary, and so he waited, forcing his muscles to remain loose, until the interloper once again stepped forward. 

Teeth bared, lips curled back in a snarl, Hanzo twisted to face the would-be attacker, an arrow of sharpened steel already drawn and aimed unerringly at the dial pulsing a soft green on the center of their chest. They froze, giving Hanzo time to absorb the white armored plates covering the length of their lithe form. Each of them bore scorch marks and scars, remnants of recent battles. Clearly, the omnic had been neglecting its maintenance. 

Hatred burned through Hanzo’s veins. He recognized the unmoving omnic only as a puppet of Overwatch, Talon’s sworn enemy. _His_ sworn enemy. 

It cocked its head to the side, a common gesture that nonetheless forced old, faded memories to the surface, then silently straightened, ignoring the creak and groan of Stormbow as Hanzo drew back on the string. The omnic reached up to its mask, released the latches on the sides with a hiss of steam, then removed the visor, allowing Hanzo to see the human living within the machine. Before him stood someone Hanzo had long thought dead. And just as it had during their latest confrontation in Hanamura, the sight momentarily silenced him. 

Back then, they had fought and Hanzo had lost, but the cyborg had spared him, even encouraged him to join in his battle against forces trying to plunge the world into chaos. 

What must he think, then, of Hanzo joining the very forces he’d been prevailed upon to fight?

Hanzo looked at the cyborg – at _Genji_ \- seeing in him a lifetime of mistakes, and felt nothing. The absence of emotion stretched and spread, like a gaping black hole expanding within him, one that dragged in heat, destroyed light, carved him out and gutted him into a hollow husk. 

He feels nothing and it’s _wrong wrong wrong_

Widow was calling for him through the comm link, sounding anxious. With great effort, his cold gaze never leaving his brother, Hanzo opened his mouth to tell her he was fine, that she should maintain her position – something told him her presence would only complicate an already unsalvageable situation – but a sharp pain lancing through his skull rendered the words unintelligible.

He tried to move, to shoot, to lower his bow, but found his body paralyzed, caught between the engrained desire to destroy Overwatch and a revulsion that turned his stomach. If he was going to aim a weapon at his brother now, if he was going to repeat the same terrible mistake, then for what reason had he thrown away his sword? What was the meaning of his quest for redemption? Or of anything he had done or said since the day he struck his brother down?

_**It doesn’t matter. Complete the mission.**_

Gritting his teeth, Hanzo delved within his own mind, determined to find what had been stolen from him. A wall rose up to stop him, too high to jump over, too wide to walk around. He crashed into it, using his own body as a makeshift battering ram until cracks began to form in the brickwork. For the last blow, he reared back and slammed his forehead against it, ignoring the ringing in his ears as the entire structure crumpled to dust. 

An abyss yawned before him, a sea stretching out farther than he could see. When he peered over the edge, frustration welling up within, he found what he’d been searching for, what he’d been missing. 

And it nearly destroyed him. 

His eyes flew open – when had they closed? – to see that Genji had dared continue his approach. He was much closer than before, almost close enough to touch, but he’d stilled when Hanzo opened his eyes, wary of being attacked. It wasn’t until he realized that no such assault was forthcoming that Genji noticed how bloodless Hanzo had grown in the space of such a short time. There was a glassy, unfocused quality to his gaze now, as though he were staring over a great distance.

“Hanzo?” Genji ventured, concern outweighing caution. 

Slowly and with visible effort, as though waking from a dream, Hanzo concentrated on him, “What have I been doing?” 

It was the lost, broken tone in the words that compelled Genji to reach for him. In that moment, he did not see the man his brother had become, but the boy he had once been. 

Despite himself, Hanzo flinched violently when Genji took an abrupt stride forward, like a wounded dog bracing for a blow.

He tensed when the cyborg’s gaze suddenly flicked upwards, followed by a frantic shout of, “No, wait!”

A sharp sting in his neck was the only warning the archer received before a wave of drowsiness swept over him. That, combined with the agony tearing through his mind, robbed him of any remaining strength he possessed, and he pitched forward, too exhausted to even put out his hands to soften the fall. 

Faster than a blink, Genji dropped to his knees, hitting the gravel hard so that he could catch his brother before he hurt himself. Hanzo slumped against him, relying heavily on his support to even remain upright. 

“I’ve got him,” he heard Genji bark into the comm built into his visor. “Let’s get him back to base.”

While he was being carried away, his surroundings blurring into watercolors and garbled sounds, Hanzo distantly wondered if Amelie would shoot him. They had a deal, after all. He waited, still in his brother’s arms, for the bullet that would finally grant him the peace he’d been searching for, even caught a glimpse of what might have been the sun reflecting off her helmet’s scarlet scopes, but the end never came.

She watched Overwatch shove him into the back of a truck, allowed them to take him away, and as drugged sleep finally dragged him under, he found he didn’t know what he wanted more - to curse her for breaking their promise… or to thank her for it.

 

They found her near Gibraltar several weeks later, alone and apparently staging a rescue. 

Widow was clever and quick, keeping her distance while firing long-range bullets at a range that would have decimated anyone unlucky enough fall into its path, but Overwatch had numbers and healers and a sniper of their own. 

Tracer kept her busy, constantly appearing in front and beside her, skewing her aim and drawing her focus while Genji slipped behind her. He was augmented to be stronger than the average human, but so was Widow, and when he looped his arms around her, she bucked against him, slamming her heels against his knees, elbowing his armored torso, and smashing her head against his, anything to loosen his hold. But Genji held fast. 

From where he was perched, weapon aimed and ready, Hanzo silently watched the struggle. Seeing that it was finished, he lowered his bow, and listened. 

She was calling his name, begging him to kill her, screaming for him to pierce her heart with an arrow at the top of her lungs, head thrown back and eyes wild with fear. He could only imagine how much it must have hurt her to do so, after so many years of never raising her voice.

He leapt down to approach with effortless grace. Amelie’s eyes widened at the sight of him - dismay, betrayal, hurt. Despair. She thought they’d changed him, that her ally was gone, erased by the enemy. She thought she’d failed him. 

She hadn’t. 

A dart entered the side of her slender neck, robbing her of her strength. However, her body gave out before her will, and she fired off several more shots at random, though Reinhardt charged forward to allow his translucent shield to neutralize the majority of the last ditch assault, thus keeping the damage to a minimum. The failed attack cost her the last of her energy, however, and Widow slumped, finally relaxing into Genji’s hold. 

Even without the heavy rise and fall of her chest, Hanzo knew well that she was afraid, even terrified of the fate that awaited her now that she was at Overwatch’s mercy – he’d felt it not so long ago himself, still felt it every now and then, like a phantom pain that refused fade – but Overwatch wasn’t going to change her, nor were they going to erase what remained of Amelie Lacroix. Instead, they wanted to help her take back what was hers. Her compassion. Her grief. Her pain. All of it.

Even so, it was a betrayal, a betrayal of her bond and everything they had been through together. Despite their promise, he had aided Overwatch in her capture, knowing full well that she would be placed under the scalpel once more. 

When her piercing yellow eyes, filled with loathing, began to slide closed, Hanzo slung his bow over his shoulder, paused to offer Genji a grateful nod, then tilted his head back to look at the sky. The sound of a helicopter’s choppers could be heard in distance, coming from the direction of the base. 

It was only for a moment, but when the archer turned his attention back to Widow, his gaze was surprisingly soft, “We have been dreaming, Amelie,” he told her gently, certain she could still hear him. “It is time for us to wake.”


	18. A Stupid Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The leader of the Shimada was expected to be a force of dignity, discipline, and refinement. Hanzo, drenched and hallucinating, was none of those things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that the PacificWatch update would be up next, but then I decided to at least start on that 'Hanzo stays with the Shimada clan' oneshot I asked AVoresmith about and, well, it was pretty much done in no time. In fact, the editing probably took longer than the writing did. 
> 
> Speaking of, this chapter was largely inspired by Chapter 14 of Avoresmith's Truce, as was the title, so if you haven't already, try checking out their work.

It’s day at the Shimada castle, with light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the last remnants of a decaying empire, so bright and glaring it spears through Hanzo’s skull, cold in his brain like sharpened steel. 

No. Actually, it’s night? The starlight dances on his tongue, so sweet it brings tears to his eyes. The wetness overflows, mixing with the steady drip of his soaked fringe, burning his cheeks like acid. 

Hanzo wasn’t sure of the time or the day or the year, hasn’t been sure for longer than he cared to remember which, admittedly, wasn’t very long at all. Moments come and moments go where he needed to muster a certain amount of focus to even recall his name. 

He’s sitting on the floor of his office with no memory of how he got there, which was dangerous and stupid when so many want him dead, but he supposes that meant the Russian drug he’d pilfered from the Clan’s narcotics supplies was doing its job. He wanted to forget – his name, his responsibilities, the sins of his past. Let the drug burn it all to oblivion.

Let it break him into dust. 

A tremor, much like the others before it, tore viciously through his body – his blood was slowly freezing, turning solid. Ice crystals stabbed through his veins, their points poking through his flesh – muscles spasmed and he jerked, accidentally slamming the back of his head against the solid concrete wall supporting him. 

A cool metal palm pressed against his throbbing, pulsing skull, directly above the nape of his exposed neck, where the wet strands of his black hair had been swept over his shoulders, prevented him from repeating the act by providing a gentle yet insistent pressure. Despite Hanzo's feeble attempts to dislodge it, the steady weight didn’t budge, and Hanzo quickly gave up trying to fight it.

Instead, he rocked, suddenly burning. The air in his lungs had turned to fire. He choked on a scream, aware of every cell in his body dying, of his limbs curling, collapsing, becoming ash. 

A tortured moan slipped past his blue lips. Shortly after, the palm pressed against his hair disappeared, only to be replaced by a heavy fabric thrown over his torso and wrapped gingerly around his shoulders. Confused, Hanzo shifted his molten limbs, raising the fabric over his arms as though it were a foreign, alien thing he’d never seen or touched before. 

Grudgingly, his mind supplied the word: Blanket. 

Had he even had one of those in his office? In the end, discerning the blanket’s origin, or even entertaining the idea that it hadn’t always been draped around him, that someone must have retrieved and moved it to its current location, required a degree of thought and perception that stretched leagues beyond his current ability. 

Thus, Hanzo did not question why he was sitting on the tiled floor of his office, his back propped up against the wall, when his last coherent memory was of drawing a bath for himself. He did not recall undressing, but he had sunk beneath the lukewarm water, regardless. Then a wave of drowsiness had swept over him as he’d waited for the high to kick in, and he’d slipped beneath its still surface, too tired to even raise his head… 

The lack of permanence required to create connections between the past and the present prevented him from coming to the most obvious conclusion, and so it wasn’t until the presence crouched beside him made itself known with a low, mechanical hum that Hanzo even considered the possibility that he wasn't alone. 

The whole of their slender, compact form was covered with glossy armored plates, barring the neck, joints, and sides, which were instead shielded by a thinner mesh, ostensibly to enable the wearer more flexibility in their movements. 

An assassin, then. 

“Do it.” Hanzo tried to say. “Kill me.” He’s not sure if he formed the words correctly, or if what he'd said even made sense, but the assassin’s neon green visor pulsed, creating exploding spots in his vision. The vents over their shoulders released clouds of steam into the air with an audible hiss. 

The assassin shifted minutely, before swiveling their head to regard him, but Hanzo could not begin to fathom what expression might lie beneath their mask. “Is that what you want?” The words come out flat, deep, and unexpectedly robotic, but the question itself was sincere, more curious than anything. 

Not for the first time, Hanzo resisted the urge to rest his head in his hands, close his eyes, and ignore the world. Should he sleep, he did not trust that the assassin would stay his hand long enough for him to wake once more. After a time, he gave voice to a whisper hoarse with longing and desperation, “Yes.”

Tilting his head to the side, the assassin seemed to consider it. “How do I know you will not scream? Draw your servants here so that they may kill me after I slay you?”

Shaking his head, a gesture that caused the room to spin dangerously, Hanzo rasped, “I… am alone.” Always. “My servants know better than to accompany me on this day.” And even if they did hear his screams, he thought bitterly, there were those among the Clan who would simply ignore them. He’s neglected the business for so long, his absence would make little more difference than a raindrop to the sea. 

Once Hanzo mentioned the anniversary of his brother’s death, the assassin visibly relaxed, stretching out his limbs to get comfortable as he settled down into a sitting position. He nodded occasionally, hummed at the appropriate times to assure the yakuza that he was listening, but Hanzo couldn’t help but feel that the assassin was merely indulging him, as though he’d heard this tale many times before.

Maybe he had. 

When the anecdote had finished, having reached its inevitable rambling conclusion, a long silence rushed to fill the void left behind. The assassin inhaled deeply, slowly, before finally commenting, “You should take better care of yourself.” Beneath the leveling effect of their filter, the ninja sounded serious, even sad. Hanzo found himself thinking there was something wrong with that, but couldn't fathom why. In the end, he chalked up the vague sense of familiarity and concern to drugged paranoia. 

Another ferocious tremor rushed through him, muscles twitching, writhing, and spasming out of his control, but the solid weight braced against his head and a tight pressure on his shoulder kept him from losing himself to it completely. 

Eventually, the intensity of the high began to fade, and when it did, Hanzo noticed that he was sitting in a puddle. It appeared that though he was fully clothed in slim-fitting pants and a navy button-up shirt, every inch of him was absolutely drenched. 

_drip drip drip_

After observing some lingering shakes passing through his chilled limbs, the assassin collapsed gracelessly against him, his pale, scuffed armor searing as a furnace. He was heavier than Hanzo had anticipated, the same armor meant for speed and flexibility on the battlefield rendering him unwieldy and awkward when pressed against his side, but soon the convulsions diminished to the occasional sporadic twitch, leaving Hanzo feeling utterly baffled. 

Such kindness was wasted on a man who would soon be dead. 

They stayed like that for some time, neither willing to break the tenuous peace. When Hanzo found himself nearly nodding off, he dared to break the silence with a question, both out of a mix of true curiosity and an ardent desire for distraction, “Why are you dressed like that?”

Hearing that, the assassin noticeably stiffened, before briefly glancing down to study his own form. “It’s not a costume,” he said quickly, a touch defensive, though Hanzo didn’t recall ever suggesting that it was. “It’s a full body prosthetic. I… actually came here to visit my brother.”

For a moment, Hanzo wondered if he had made a mistake in assuming this man had been sent to kill him. “Is that so? What is his name?” Dry, cracked lips twitched, more pre-mortem rictus than smile. “Perhaps I know him.” 

As neglectful as he undeniably was to the machinations of the criminal empire, the current _kumicho_ still made it a point to know the names and families of every man and woman involved in the Clan. While there was very little he could do or even wanted to do to help anyone these days, when it came to finding a relative within the organization, he could at least be of some assistance. 

Instead of answering immediately, the assassin climbed heavily to his feet, unfolding and straightening until he stood at his tallest, and faced the exit. Though unspoken, his intention to leave was clear, yet the armored ninja hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder to once again find the formerly proud and strong yakuza huddled piteously in the corner, “No... I do not think that you do.”


	19. The Rift - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the death of one man in the face of the apocalypse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 一人で？- Alone?  
> 多分。- Probably.  
> 強いか？- Are you afraid?

“Don’t just stand there!” Amelie snapped at the remaining omnic standing immobile behind her, where it seemed to ignore the struggle playing out in favor of staring blankly at her. She’d already wrapped her arms around the other omnic’s torso in an effort to pry him off her co-pilot, but it barely even seemed to register her presence as it continued to slam his head against the hull of their Jaeger, all the while tightening the iron grip it had around Hanzo’s windpipe. At the rate this was going, her co-pilot was really going to die. “Help me!” 

The sound of her crying for help galvanized the machine into motion at the same time that Hanzo’s assailant suddenly stilled, seemingly stunned by the reflection staring back in the Jaeger’s black armor. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, Reyes, Amelie and the omnic fell on it, gripping, trapping, and pulling every limb they could get their hands around, until they eventually managed to pry the two apart, allowing Hanzo to stagger to his feet with a ragged gasp, a hand pressed gingerly against the shallow depressions in his neck. Ugly, mottled bruises were already beginning to form in darkening stripes across the injured flesh.

“Hanzo, Amelie,” there was a pained grunt when the practically feral robot Reyes was fighting to keep restrained winded him with a well-placed elbow, “meet your new co-pilots.”

 

The walk through the docking station and back to Amelie’s quarters felt extremely exposed, like they were bearing down a runaway, surrounded by spotlights on all sides with an announcer explaining the preceding events to those in the crowd sitting too far back in the stands to see. 

Hanzo strode quickly past the milling crowd with his chin tucked in and his head lowered to keep the unnatural flush darkening his features out of sight. Walking beside him, Amelie did her best to divert any attention his odd, evasive behavior would have usually garnered by glaring preemptively at anyone who so much as glanced in their direction. 

It was only after they had returned and Hanzo had gotten himself settled on her meticulously made bed with a couple of painkillers and a bag of ice that she dropped the calm façade long enough to vent her frustrations. “What was Reyes _thinking?_ ” Low and dangerous as a cold winter’s night, she hissed to the empty air, “That omnic almost killed you.” While the outburst showed how much her rehabilitation had progressed since joining the Jaeger program, no doubt accelerated by the time she’d spent within his own mind, the fury she wielded was nonetheless a terrifying thing to behold. At her sides, her long, slender fingers twitched as though yearning for a trigger. “How can he expect us to put our lives in the hands of something that so clearly wants you dead?”

It had recognised him, that much was certain, but Hanzo did not recall doing anything which would warrant such a murderous rage from the omnic. Well, not recently, at least. He did not even recall seeing it before. “If the machine had truly wanted it so,” Hanzo said with deliberate slowness, thinking back to the attack, “I highly doubt I would still be capable of speaking with you now.”

Stepping closer, she persisted in a softer, quieter tone, “You could have him decommissioned.” Then with a fond quirk to her lips, added, “It might be best to work with an omnic who doesn’t hate you, _mon cher_.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that.

 

 _I could have killed him_ , Genji hissed through their mental link, from within the confines of the cylinder he’d been thrown back into while the Marshall waited for him to cool his head. _I could kill him still. My strength exceeds his now._

It didn’t feel like his strength, though. It didn’t feel like his body, but he was still high off the bloodlust running through his circuits, the heady sensation leftover from watching his brother’s life fade beneath his fingertips erasing most of his doubts for the time being, except... 

Except he had seen his reflection in the inky black hull of what Reyes had called a Jaeger, caught the scarlet bleeding into the electric green lights scattered over his form, the steam billowing from his vents like clouds of dragon’s breath, and for an instant, he’d forgotten about his hatred, his need to avenge the life that had been stolen from him, and saw only the monster trying to kill his brother. 

Damn it!

Who was it that had struck the other down in cold blood? Until the very end, he had tried to talk Hanzo down, even knowing that fighting with everything he’d had was the only way to survive. And for that, he’d been cursed to an immortal, unfeeling body, stripped of everything he’d once been so that he could continue to serve as a weapon. 

Maybe he was a monster, a pitiful creature from those cautionary tales their father used to tell when they were small. But he wasn’t the only one. 

_That might be true_ … His companion replied from the glass cylinder next to him after a silence so long that Genji jerked when the words appeared suddenly within his mind, interrupting his thoughts. The other omnic’s mental voice sounded exhausted, the brief and disastrous meeting having taken its toll. Despite having done nothing wrong, he'd made no attempt to protest his sharing of Genji's punishment. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances, gratitude did not come readily to the younger Shimada. _But you won’t._

Yanking at the wires hindering his movements, Genji swiveled to glower at the nondescript faceplate tilted towards the floor, before remembering that he too wore an impassive sheet of metal in place of the human skin and muscle that had once molded so effortlessly to his moods. This only served to stoke the bitter shame and rage brewing within him.

 _Do not speak as though you know me, omnic._ A snarl ripped straight through his mind passed between them. _You, who would do their bidding like a loyal dog._

Instead of answering, Gerard sent back an image of a shrug through their link. 

It had its intended effect.

 

Soon after, Reyes strode into the basement to find the omnic with green highlights spewing streams of garbled static, while the other refused to engage, though its shoulders trembled slightly in an excellent mimicry of a human struggling not to laugh. 

While Reyes recalled Gerard as being almost supernaturally patient when he was alive, a trait that matched well with the strong-willed woman who’d chosen him to be her husband, he supposed being around a Shimada would inevitably draw out the latent trollish sides of anyone treated to the pleasure of their company for too long. Watching the scene play out, Reyes felt ridiculous for worrying about how the pair were fairing. 

“Cut that racket, would you?” The unintelligible bickering came to an abrupt halt. Fists planted on his hips, Reyes surveyed them both with a keen eye, before eventually settling on Gerard. “You okay there?” No nicknames. No first names. Just a man making sure his weapon’s in top-notch condition. 

Picturing an exasperated eyeroll, Genji subtly rotated his faceplate. _How come he’s only worried about you?_

A smirk passed through their connection. _Probably because I’m a loyal dog._

“Unlike you, Shimada,” the Marshall interrupted with such impeccable timing Genji questioned if he wasn’t somehow in tune to their thoughts, as well, “he didn’t commit assault not five minutes out of the tube. You’re damn lucky the pilots aren’t calling for your empty head on a spit.”

Gerard twisted, pulling gently at the wires suspending him to face Reyes better when a series of beeps and clicks began issuing from his defunct vocal emitters. 

The Marshall’s eyes widened minutely, followed by an expression of focus. By the time the final tone had ended, he was nervously scratching the curly scruff of his beard with a chewed-down nail, “Amelie may have mentioned once or twice what I could do with myself if I let my psychotic pet harm another hair on that meticulously styled hairdo of his.” 

Genji felt the other omnic’s surprise through their link, followed shortly by a wry chuckle as he ducked his head in quiet amusement.

 _That does sound like my wife._

A light entered the Marshall’s dark eyes as he unwittingly mirrored the chuckle, a spark that was both friendly and warm. It melted years off him. “Even with you looking like this, it’s sometimes hard to remember… “ Then he roughly shook his head, casting off the memories clinging to him like cobwebs, and the weariness returned with interest. “No, I can’t afford to get sentimental here.” He rubbed at the deepening crease between his brows. 

But when he spoke again, his scarred features were hard and composed. There was no trace of the weight they’d caught a mere glimpse of in his rigid posture. 

Genji felt the mental link bonding him to his companion fluctuate after the change, becoming tinged with shades of disappointment and loss that he knew didn’t belong to him. He shied away from it, deciding that he had enough issues of his own to deal with. 

As he did before, Reyes released them from their glass prisons, then issued them new orders. They were to report to the mess hall, mingle with the pilots, but most importantly, they were there to, “Play nice.” The Marshall narrowed his eyes dangerously when he saw the Shimada’s omnic tense. “This is your first and final warning. Another incident like last time and not even this pretty face of mine will be enough to get you out of here.”

 

After the catching a glimpse of the mechanical titans lurking in the docking station and their eccentric pilots, the fact that the mess hall was, in all aspects, perfectly normal was something of a let down. It had rows and rows of tables to accommodate for the tremendous number of people required to keep the Jaeger program functional, a buffet section where the staff could load up on salad and toppings, and a section for cooked foods, like meat, steamed vegetables, and mashed potatoes, where the workers lined up to have whatever was available slopped onto their tray. 

The pilots were the biggest eaters by a landslide, as controlling the Jaegers burned through an immense amount of calories. Even after the battle was over, traces of their time in the Drift continued to drain them at an almost alarming rate. 

They were all seated in a tight-knit group towards the back, which naturally meant that the omnic pair gravitated towards the front, effectively putting as much distance between them as possible. For no reason other than habit and a feeble attempt to blend in, Gerard snagged them two empty food trays, sliding one in front of Genji, whose hand shot out to stop its momentum in a perfect mimicry of muscle memory. 

He shoved the tray aside, ignoring the attention his attitude was drawing from some of the human and omnic workers. They regarded him curiously, but the aggressive set of his shoulders and his tacit refusal to acknowledge any of the cautious greetings thrown his way was leaving behind a bad taste in their mouths. 

Though his unblinking gaze was fixed solely on Hanzo, who’d shown up to the mess hall that day looking ridiculous in a pair of sunglasses with dark shades and a deep ocean blue scarf that he’d obviously borrowed from his co-pilot. Every now and then, he’d rub his temple as though nursing a headache, and kept his head down. A man with his drinking experience could imitate the symptoms of a hangover without sparing it much thought, and the act was made all the more convincing because he never once claimed to have consumed any alcohol. Instead, he let his strange attire and uncharacteristic exhaustion speak for themselves. 

The others buzzed around him, like this wasn’t as uncommon as it should have been. Sometimes, Genji’s enhanced optics would catch a concerned glance, brief and quickly hidden. Whatever reason might make a straight-laced guy like Hanzo drink himself into a stupor wasn’t something any of them wanted to acknowledge or talk about, but they all understood it. 

Was hiding his humiliating injuries really worth ruining what little hope they had?

 _These people,_ he realised, _are all going to die._

Genji jolted when the table jumped beneath him. He jerked his head up to see Gerard utilising the angles and lighting to craft an impressive scowl. It was the first instance of true anger Genji had ever sensed from him. 

Honestly, though, it was bound to happen. Everyone got tired of dealing with his endless bullshit, eventually. 

What he didn’t expect was the steady pressure against his back. He glanced over his shoulder to see his brother’s co-pilot pinning him with a glare that would have frozen the blood in his veins solid if he weren’t currently running empty on the stuff.

Seeing his focus had shifted, Gerard followed the general direction of his V-shape patterned headlights, staring over the sea of gray and blue workman’s clothes and t-shirts, only to accidentally get caught in the fringes of her chilly gaze.

Though they’d both served with Overwatch, he’d always been the reckless one, often coming home late to dinner with scrapes and bruises that, to him, had each represented a life he’d saved, but which had held an additional meaning for her – every pink, healing scar on his body was evidence of how close she always was to losing him. 

She told him once after an argument, in that same resigned, yet achingly fond tone she always used when she knew her words couldn’t stop him from marching back into hell to try and save as many lives as he could, “You’ll burn your hands trying to save the stars from falling.” 

Why hadn’t he listened? If he’d only paid more attention, he might have noticed something was off with her after her so-called 'release' from Talon. And going back even further, if he’d just spent more time at home, they might never have taken her in the first place. 

She wore the length of her raven locks in a high ponytail that billowed from her scalp before ending in a needle’s point a little past her waist. The hair was tied off at the top with a golden ribbon that seemed to be an exact replica of the scale-patterned strips attached to the _Izanami_ ’s black crown. Her skin was less sun kissed than he remembered, more final stages of hypothermia, but when she noticed him, and the hostility emanating from her faded, replaced by simple curiosity, he knew that whatever had been done to her, whatever she had done, she was still his beloved Amelie. 

Relief flooded through him, only to be met with a wave of undisguised scorn radiating from the younger Shimada brother. 

Gerard shifted to face him with a challenge, _Is it such a bad thing for me to be happy my wife is still alive?_

_You are too soft._ Genji scoffed. _The yakuza would have chewed you up and eaten you for breakfast._

 _Is that so?_ Gerard shot back with a paper-thin veneer of calm. Though the other man’s attitude had quickly begun to grate on his nerves, it was especially so now that their freedom depended on him behaving himself. _What does that say about you, then?_

For once, the younger Shimada took his time before answering, _Only that I wasn’t cruel enough to survive._

_And yet,_ Gerard continued to press, _your brother breathes._

When the other omnic twisted his torso to better observe his brother, Gerard got the message loud and clear that he was killing two birds with the action by also turning his back on the conversation. _That merely proves my point._

Although Hanzo barely interacted, preferring to eat his meal in silence, the atmosphere around him was so energized with sporadic bursts of boisterous laughter and that young Egyptian girl running around, stirring up trouble, and he was so clearly a part of it, that Genji felt a thrill of envy shoot through him. Gone were the days when he would be the life of the party... and whose fault was that? 

A balloon collided with the back of Hanzo’s head, soaking him, and he sputtered, throwing Fareeha, who still had her arm half-raised, too stunned by her incredible aim to react quickly, a nasty look that promised swift retribution.

Watching the scene play out, Gerard commented dryly, _He seems like a real monster._

But of course he could speak so glibly – he hadn’t spent an entire childhood being brushed off and ignored. Once, when they were boys, he’d been proud to call Hanzo his friend, but Genji had witnessed the slow death of the boy without truly understanding its significance until the man who took his place stole everything from him. In order to protect the Family, Hanzo destroyed the only family he had left. 

And it was all meaningless. He abandoned the Shimada-gumi, leaving them to shrivel into insignificance as the kaiju laid waste to the world. 

No, Hanzo did not harbor a hidden heart of gold. It would be a miracle if he even had a soul. 

“Stop this foolishness, you ridiculous man.” It was the exasperation evident in the flat tone of Hanzo’s co-pilot that peaked his interest more than the words. Few had dared speak to him so casually during their youth. Genji half-expected his brother to snap at her, until he intuitively activated his optics, and the image of Hanzo hunched over some indefinable object became him fiddling with the tie of a sloshing red water balloon and the shaft of a suction-cup arrow he’d lifted from the dojo. “She is a _child._ ”

“I have been dreaming of this moment for weeks. Try though you may, you cannot stop me from reclaiming my honor.” Although he uttered the strange claim with complete sincerity, there was a subtle yet undeniably telling quirk to his lips that suggested this was an oft-played game between him and the child, as did the nonchalant trading of bets around the table. It was all so casual, so familial, that the ghost of Genji’s human heart ached. What he’d believed to be watching his normally reticent and introverted brother merely tolerating his coworkers and their odd quirks was actually the cool acceptance of the strange familial unit he’d been adopted into. 

Among the soldiers, criminals, and vagabonds, Hanzo had found some measure of peace within himself. It was so astonishing to see the laughter lurking at the corners of his dark eyes that Genji’s thought processes briefly shorted out, leaving vague impressions of relief and wonder as his older brother proved he could still be a ridiculous dork by aiming the dummy arrow with its sloshing burden at the impish Egyptian girl sticking her tongue out at him from the far end of the table. 

Having spotted the projectile upon its release, Fareeha’s jaw dropped, and she stood gaping until the arrow reached its apex, nearly grazing the ceiling, then she ducked under the table with a squeak. Seeking an explanation for the girl’s abrupt retreat, McCree looked up, laid amber eyes on the wobbliest, heaviest, most aero-dynamically challenged projectile he’d ever seen, and followed her under, ducking just in time to have it sail directly over his hat and right into the Russian pilot. Her body shielded Mei for the most part, leaving her with little more than a dripping fringe and some cool spray on her neck, but Morrison, and Amari weren’t so lucky. 

From the growing expression of horror on Hanzo’s face as Zarya and Morrison climbed to their feet, he knew his days were numbered. 

There was a moment of silence, strained as an overwound violin string an instant before it snaps. Hanzo had enough time to flick his anxious gaze towards his co-pilot, who suddenly seemed entirely too preoccupied by her glass of orange juice to be of any assistance, and then Zarya launched herself across the table, going for his legs. Hanzo, already skittish, narrowly leapt out of her reach, after which his clawed prosthetics landed directly on the table, shaking glasses and plates but, incredibly, leaving every meal and piece of silverware unharmed. That remained true for an entire two seconds before Zarya clambered after him like an enraged bull chasing a deer, and their passing was accompanied by a chorus of indignant shouts and tipped glasses. That day, lunch was ruined by a pair of stomping boots and clicking metal claws. 

The American pilot rushed around the front to cut them off, not expecting Hanzo to sail gracefully over his head, while Zarya charged relentlessly forward, crashing into Morrison with the delicate touch of a freight train. 

Standing over their tangled bodies with a look of pure wonder on his face, as though pondering what deity he would have to thank for the stroke of luck that just saved his hide, Hanzo glanced over his shoulder to see that several meals had been splattered across the table, the floor, and most of his fellow Jaeger pilots. Though the entire mess hall had borne witness to his failed prank retaliation and subsequent flight from a Russian woman strong enough to subdue a bear with her bare hands, it was the sight of Fareeha and McCree laughing uproariously on their backsides that really made the tips of his ears burn. 

One thing was certain – if the kaiju didn’t kill him, those two almost certainly would. 

“I’ll meet you back at quarters,” he grunted to Amelie, and Genji abruptly straightened, ready to pounce on this chance to confront Hanzo when he was alone.

Beside him, Gerard went rigid. He struggled with the decision of intervening or letting the drama between the brothers play itself out, but then Amelie flicked her keen gaze in their direction, and dismissively pushed her tray aside, “Let us both go.” She frowned down at her unfinished eggs before deftly swinging her legs over the bench and rising to her full height. “I was not that hungry, anyway.” 

The look Hanzo regarded her with was one of pure gratitude, and they strode briskly towards the exit before either the Russian or American pilot had a chance to get their bearings back.

Meanwhile, Genji, who could scarcely believe the changes he’d witnessed in his stubborn and inflexible brother, settled down into his seat. 

Hanzo was infamous for repeatedly turning down invites to karaoke and parties and bars when they were younger, so why was it now that the king of turning his nose up at fun was tying water balloons to filched dummy arrows and sprinting over table tops? 

The problem, of course, was that Genji wasn’t dumb. He could see a connection when it was staring him straight in the face. Without the responsibility of leading the clan looming in his future or the burden of struggling to control his wild younger brother, Hanzo had finally learned how to lighten up. Curling his cybernetic fingers into fists, Genji realised how ridiculously pointless his repeated attempts at bringing his _anija_ out of his shell over the years had been. If he’d really wanted to help Hanzo live a little, all he’d had to do was die. 

But, hey, better late than never, right?

 

Omnics, as it turned out, did not need sleep. While they could be forced into a stand-by mode that replicated the process, it was dreamless and empty. Reyes, who despite all his posturing and bluster, did his best to treat them like he would any other thinking, feeling soldiers, gave them his unspoken blessing to wander around the Shatterdome, instead. 

Ostensibly, it was to further familiarize them with its corridors, so they could move quickly to where their presence was required in an emergency, but the omnics weren’t fooled. Since the upcoming battle could very well spell their last days on Earth, the Marshall wanted to grant them as many opportunities to enjoy it as he could manage.

Depending on perspective, these artificial lives of theirs were either a short, cruel joke or, considering they were technically already dead, a blessing. 

Gerard drifted from Genji’s side the instant the Shatterdome cleared for the night, with most of the workers and pilots returned to their barracks. He had his own demons to wrestle, after all. Still, while Genji was not unaware of how difficult he was making it to be around him at the moment, he was by no means a solitary creature, and thus his steps led him to unconsciously seek out company. 

The scientists were likely still awake, still prepping for the attack, studying the kaiju in their toilless efforts to save every life they could, but while Winston must have adapted to long nights with little sleep, Mercy was still a teenager. Even powered on coffee, the burn-out came quick and fierce. When Genji peered through the lit window to the lab, one hand cupped over the pulsing lights on his faceplate, it was to see the gorilla hard at work, tapping rapidly on multiple keyboards with an open jar of peanut butter on his right, while a young girl with sleep-mussed locks slept soundly on a gurney further inside. There was a gray, military-issued blanket wrapped around her shoulders, several empty coffee mugs on the floor, and a thin trail of drool spilling onto the elbow positioned under her cheek. 

Floating in cylinders filled with a viscous yellow liquid was an organ so enormous it could only belong to a kaiju. Its severed appendages bumped idly against the sides, almost as though the thing were still alive. 

Slightly sickened by the thought, Genji left the labs without a backwards glance. Uncaring of where his legs took him, he soon found himself back in the docking station, staring up at the gods of men that slept there, lying in silent wait for the apocalypse to come knocking.

They were… incredible. 

With heights to rival the tallest skyscrapers in Tokyo, they towered over him, making him feel small and wholly insignificant, the way a child might feel standing at the feet of his heroes. 

Somehow, even if the kaiju razed the planet and humanity came to an abrupt and violent end, Genji couldn’t imagine that these titans would fall. They would stand forever, watching the world that had created them burn. 

Filled with awe, Genji meandered aimlessly past the behemoths, including _Kong Fury_ and the Russian Jaeger, _Frostbite_ , each of them built for barreling into the kaiju and then punching them into paste. They were thicker, heavier than the rest. What would cripple the average Jaeger would be a mere annoyance for them. 

_Wild Abandon_ , he saw now, was built like a brawler, with most of its mass concentrated towards its torso to grant it a strong center of balance and enough weight behind its punches to put a new crater in the moon. Morrison and Amari’s was built for combat at mid-range, with pulse rifles built into its limbs, but should circumstances demand it, they could easily shift into sniping mode, allowing them to take out kaiju seconds after they breached the surface.

And in the midst of the brawlers and the behemoths was _Izanami_. It was slender compared to the others, built for flexibility and speed. Instead of rounded corners and curves, the Jaeger’s body was more stream-lined and angular, with a diamond-shaped head and smoothed edges. It stood like a sentinel, a warrior and, Genji couldn’t help but think, bore more than a passing resemblance to its Japanese pilot. 

A glowing spark, drifting lazily down the length of the titan’s form, compelled Genji to raise his faceplate higher, and he watched for awhile as men on a scaffold did some minor repairs on the hull. They might have even been fixing the dents left behind after he’d slammed his brother’s face into it. 

Genji doubted that was actually the case, but it was a cheery thought, nonetheless. 

It took him longer than it should have to notice the clawed metal boot dangling from several floors up. Seizing this chance, Genji quickly located the nearest staircase, and then sprinted as far as it would go. Since Hanzo’s perch had appeared to be at about chest-level with the Jaegers, Genji assumed that it was something of a makeshift observation deck, but it was late – the pilots were asleep, the technicians and engineers were concentrated fully on their work. 

There would be no interruptions this time. 

Soon, Hanzo would be made to pay for his sins, or he would finish what he started in Hanamura. At this point, Genji would have welcomed either outcome. 

When he at last reached the top,, moving silently now so as not to alert his brother to his presence, Genji stepped forward, itching for the weight of a blade in his grasp, but was caught off caught by the distance evident in Hanzo’s dark eyes. He was watching the construction with an unfocused gaze, the lines carved into his features over the years standing stark against cheeks drained of color. 

Having assumed that Hanzo was happy with his new life, now that he was at least free of both the clan and his troublemaking brother, Genji stopped short, utterly thrown by how forlorn he looked, sitting alone with his back bent and his legs hanging carelessly off the edge. 

Then, without turning his head away from the Jaeger, Hanzo growled, “What is it you want, omnic?”

So, he was already aware of his presence.

Of course he was. 

So many of Genji’s pranks had been ruined when they were children because Hanzo always seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to his little brother sneaking up behind him. Back then, it had only forced Genji to get creative with pranks, sometimes even enlisting the staff for help, but that time had ended long before the kaiju ravaged their home. The lonely boy desperate for his older brother’s attention was dead, buried underneath the rubble of the Shimada clan.

Though Genji halted his approach, wary since Hanzo had never been one to forgive any slight against him, the archer shifted minutely, as though extending a silent invitation. 

Not knowing what to make of it, Genji remained where he was, several feet away, his gaze darting anxiously between the offered space and Hanzo, who quirked an inquiring brow at his hesitance. 

A hint of challenge in the look rankled the ninja’s pride enough that he crossed the distance in one stride and then plopped down beside him, limbs folding easily into the lotus position. The act came across as far more petulant than he’d intended, rising to the bait like a pouty child, and so it was with shame spreading outwards from his chest that he swiveled to see the good-natured amusement taking residence on his brother’s aged features. 

Genji pointedly averted his gaze, turning it back to _Izanami_ , whose center glowed with scarlet and orange radiance under the heated tools of the men working so diligently on making absolutely certain that the death bringer was in the best condition it could be for its pilots and every soul that depended on them to put a stop to the alien invasion. 

With armor so black it seemed to carry a bluish sheen, the Jaeger had to be one of the coolest mechanical innovations that Genji had ever seen. Sure, he’d gone through a giant robot phase, had spent hours piecing together models of various Gundams and taken a certain amount of pride in the 12-inch Voltron action figure sitting on his nightstand, but he’d never expected to actually see one in real life. 

It was quite literally a dream come true. 

A familiar chuckle snapped him back to the present, and he turned to see Hanzo with a palm cupped over his mouth as he attempted to courteously suppress any further outbursts, “Forgive me,” he said, though his dark eyes still crinkled with fond remembrance. “For a moment, you reminded me very much of my brother.” 

Settling down with a sigh, he leaned forward, curving his back and placing interlocked fingers on his lap while his unwavering gaze remained steadily on the _Izanami_. “He would have loved this place.” 

Hearing Hanzo speak of him so easily rekindled the scorching heat of Genji’s rage. He wanted nothing more than to scream at Hanzo, to demand of him how he could dare speak of the younger brother he’d murdered to an utter stranger. Didn't he feel any pain, any regret at all? 

Instead of allowing his anger to control his actions a second time, however, he tried to redirect the conversation by tracing symbols from their native language on the deck. Hanzo watched with increasing fascination as the seemingly abstract movements took the form and meaning of an excellent question. 

_**一人で？** _

_Should you really allow yourself to be alone with me?_

Dark imprints of metal fingers still marked Hanzo’s throat, so vivid and precise Genji could even clearly make out his own segmented joints on his skin, but it was the stylishly close-cropped sides, the casually tied bun, and single thick lock of bangs framing Hanzo’s sharp jawline that he couldn’t ignore. The brother he’d known would have never adopted such a modern look. 

While Hanzo pondered his response, he twisted the tail-end of his bangs around the tip of a finger. “The Shatterdome is expansive, yet can feel very small when you see the same faces, everyday. Consequently, I am not always pleasant to be around.” The edge of his lips curled in a bitter, self-deprecating twist. “When that happens, I like to come here. It helps me gain perspective.” 

“Why?” Hanzo asked with a subtle note of pitch black humor. “Are you going to try to kill me again?”

Surprised, Genji’s cybernetic fingers hovered aimlessly over the floor, twitching at random as sporadic electric surges jolted the circuitry. Then they glided through the familiar strokes of the kanji standing stark against a white background in his mind. 

_**多分。** _

In truth, he didn’t know, anymore. 

Regardless, Hanzo accepted the vague statement with a slow nod. “If you are patient, you may not have to,” he commented wryly. “The kaiju are not known for taking prisoners.”

_**怖いか？** _

“Am I afraid?” The archer’s brows rose in disbelief, and he twisted sharply to face the omnic sitting beside him with a suspicion that gradually relaxed into tired, weary acceptance. “I would be a fool if I wasn’t.”

“I know you seek my death, and I’m sure that whatever your reason may be, it is more than justified” – _Stop it. Stop acting so goddamn noble when you’re the one who did this to me_ – “but mankind does not deserve to die for the mistakes of one man.” He paused to allow time for that to sink in. “This life is new to you, you should have been given the chance to live it before we thrust you into our war, but if you help us win, help us stop the monsters for good, I will gladly offer you mine.”

It wasn’t fair. Over time, Genji's death had been downgraded from a tragedy to a statistic, one lost soul in a sea of millions. But while Hanzo had moved on in the face of the oncoming apocalypse, Genji could still feel the katana’s blade cutting through him, could still see the blurry outline of his brother staring down at his broken body. His hate had fangs, it had claws, and it would not be sated by a willing sacrifice. 

When he’d wrapped his hands around Hanzo’s throat, it’d been in the hopes of killing the traitor who’d chosen the clan over his own flesh and blood, but what satisfaction could be gained from slaying a man exhausted by his efforts to save humanity? The Hanzo before him now feared for the lives of his teammates, of his fellow pilots, of his partner. He was not the proud and aloof heir he had once been. 

But he was still a murderer. No amount of time or introspection would change that. 

Still, Genji unfolded his awkward limbs, unaccustomed as he was to their lightness and length, and pushed himself to his feet. His mind a tangled mess, he turned his back on Hanzo without any further acknowledgement, and had almost disappeared into the shadows entirely when he heard a muttered, “Wait.” 

Feeling as though he were trapped in a dream where he was not quite in control of his own body, Genji glanced over his shoulder to see Hanzo digging into the pockets of his jeans to pull out something that peeked out from between his fist - thin, delicate, and pure white. 

Once Genji was close enough, he uncurled his fingers to reveal a paper lily. It was slightly crinkled at the edges, its creases and folds askew in a way that suggested the flower was the end result of many attempts from rough and calloused hands that were long out of practice with the art, but that only strengthened its beauty in Genji’s eyes.

He cupped its petals gently, careful not to crush it. The relieved exhale Hanzo uttered did not go unnoticed. 

With a shudder that traveled through his limbs, Genji tore his gaze off the lily. His head shot up to see Hanzo regarding him with unexpected warmth, though it was not without a hint of sadness. “Think of it as something to remember us by.”

Finally, Genji couldn’t take anymore. He could not recognise who he had once been in what he had become, nor could he recognise his brother. After losing his home, his family, and even his life, the thought of losing Hanzo should not have scared him, yet he was the only connection left to his old life, to the old world. 

And by tomorrow, he could be gone. 

Confused and conflicted by the maelstrom stirring inside him, Genji spun on his heel and fled down the hall.

Just as he was about to barrel around the corner, movement in his peripheral caught his eye, stopping him short. A shadow broke off from the wall behind Hanzo, taking the form of a woman with swaying black hair, and padded up beside him. He shifted without comment, and she settled down next to him, linking her slender fingers easily with his. 

For Genji, the night closed as he watched the backs of those solitary souls, like lonely stars determined to keep each other company in the wide expanse of space, and the Jaegers that joined them in one fate, one purpose. 

To stare unblinkingly into the storm. To fight the hurricane.


	20. if i could save you - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a glitch in the recently implemented respawn system leads to the potential loss of a valuable member of Overwatch, a decision must be made.

The problem wasn’t that Athena couldn’t be trusted. It was that the resurrection failsafe made them cocky, made them reckless. In place of the usual requirement of hundreds of dedicated men and women dying for the cause, the same handful of willing soldiers could die hundreds of times. It was, to put it in the simplest terms, a miracle. 

However, the nature of the innovation raised a few questions, the most important of which being whether or not it constituted as true resurrection, or something more along the lines of duplication. Could the essence of a human be stored in a computer’s database, even one as advanced as Athena’s, and still laugh and scream and roar and fight in the battlefield? 

It ended up being one of those things Overwatch tried not to think about too much or too often. 

Their lives became expendable, disposable. But Overwatch became immortal. 

Death could take them, and take and take and take, but it could not keep them. And so they threw themselves into every mission, growing callous to the accumulation of injuries both superficial and life-threatening, because despite Mercy’s best efforts to explain and thereby offset the psychological side effects before hand, the human mind was not equipped to experience and cope with repeatedly coming back from the dead. 

Brains needed to be rewritten, changing the death of a comrade from an event worthy of debilitating grief to a mere setback. 

It was their greatest advantage, a technology they needed to utilize to its fullest capabilities to turn the tide of the war against injustice and fear before Talon either got their claws on it or learned how to duplicate the effect of Reaper’s own nanites, as they were an early prototype of the resurrection technology that prevented permanent death at the steep price of constant, agonizing pain. 

And yet… Using it felt wrong, somehow. 

They were shot down, blown up, disassembled and torn to pieces. They watched their teammates, their comrades fall to the wayside, and were expected to keep moving, let Mercy heal those who could be saved and wait for those who couldn’t to reappear amongst the fray, whole and unharmed, As though they hadn’t just bled out on the tile. As though you hadn’t just watched it happen. 

Living in a world where Death had lost its teeth threw the value of everything into question. Where was the honor is sacrificing your life for a worthy cause or the friends who fought by your side if life was a renewable resource? 

Not for the first time since Overwatch had integrated this technology into their missions, Genji had witnessed the last gasping breaths of his allies, seen them fall to injuries they’d have easily avoided if they’d only been more careful. 

He knew – _knew_ they would fine, but even still, seeing Hana limping away from the battle, with her slender arms wrapped around the scarlet spreading over her middle, as though something precious were to come loose should she be jostled ever so slightly… he’d hesitated. Faltered.

And it’d almost cost them the mission. 

Despite his initial absence and later distracted state, 76, McCree, and his own brother had managed to successfully prevent the weapon’s cash from falling into the wrong hands. Afterwards, he’d ardently apologized for his shortcomings, but was met with disbelieving scoffs and tuts, as though he had done no wrong, as though he were making a big deal out of nothing. 

Most of the team had piled into the kitchen to celebrate this latest victory when he’d quietly slipped away, seeking solitude, so that he may have some time alone with his thoughts. 

As it was in his nature to strive for higher ground when the mood struck him for privacy, he quickly scaled the smooth wall, locating hand and footholds with an ease that made the climb little more difficult to him than walking in a straight line, then balanced atop several thick pipes until the sight greeting him when he looked down was the very edge of the cliff and the roiling waters below. 

If he were to fall from this height, the waves would crush him, smash his body against the rocks and pull the remains in a million different directions. He would die, and that would be the end. The thought, for some reason, offered small comfort. 

He lowered himself onto the water pipe, distantly aware of the heat seeping in through his armored plating, and let his feet dangle as his thoughts gradually began to drift…

“So this is where you were hiding.” Genji made a quiet noise of complaint when Hanzo’s head appeared above the walkway, followed shortly by the rest of his nimble body once he swung himself from the hanging position to land on the platform in a crouch. Instead of immediately initiating a conversation, he strode over to the edge to join Genji, who begrudgingly shifted to accommodate him. They sat in silence for several minutes, each of them content to simply exist in the ocean’s calming rhythm, the flow of the world and its creatures. 

It was a peace that ended too soon. “I checked with Athena after we landed,” Hanzo mentioned without looking his brother in the eye. “You died today.”

Genji shifted slightly, thinking back to after he’d gotten Hana to safety, when his world had exploded in flames. “I was aware.” It came out shorter, sharper than he’d intended. “The novelty of it is beginning to wear off.”

Instead of flinching or responding in kind, Hanzo merely studied his growing agitation, appearing thoughtful. “It is not your death that concerns you.” Genji had forgotten how perceptive he could be when it suited him. “There is no shame in feeling unsettled by the sight of your comrade’s deaths.” He turned to see Hanzo staring out at the horizon, his dark eyes trained on some distant point only he could make out, but though his gaze strayed, his words were near and present. “These people are close to you. You care for them.” At last, he turned to face Genji, who stifled the urge to inhale sharply at the uncommon warmth gently emanating from Hanzo’s weathered features. “Rather than think it strange to be so affected, would it not be far stranger if you were not?”

To hear it finally said aloud was a relief. But Hanzo had not experienced firsthand the artificial death the rest of them had. He was careful. He treated his life as though it were his first and only. 

“Are you upset with me?” Behind the vivid green visor, Genji blinked. 

He backtracked through the conversation thus far to find what might have prompted the question, but came up empty. “Upset with you? Why would I be?”

Without hesitation, Hanzo replied simply, “I have not died.”

Pulling a knee close so that he could rest his chin, Genji glanced sidelong at him. “No one asks it of you.” 

It was his decision to make, after all. To give up his life was a choice that could not be forced upon him by anyone, regardless of their intentions. Genji had invited his brother to join Overwatch so that he may fight with them, not die with them. With each new mission, however, the difference, once clear-cut, was admittedly beginning to blur. 

In the distance, the sun had begun to pitch below the horizon, staining the ocean’s surface with pink and lavender hues. A flock of seagulls picking the shore for crustaceans and insects craned their necks towards the falling orb with a curious tilt, as though picking up on the last notes of melody that rose and fell with the day. 

One by one, they beat their silver-tipped wings and took flight, intent on returning to their nests for the night. 

Behind the brothers, a loud boom rattled the walls and pipes, suggesting that either Torbjorn had found the alcohol or Reinhardt was walking around Winston’s lab. Despite his age, Reinhardt had a tendency of underestimating his size when outside of combat, like an overgrown Labrador with paws too large for his body. 

There was a shout, followed by a series of giggles and snorts that floated idly as soap bubbles on the warm ocean breeze.

Were it not for Mercy’s medical knowledge and Athena’s resources, the base would have been empty. 

“Genji?” Judging by the roughness creeping into Hanzo’s voice, his own thoughts had followed a similar path. Reluctant to speak, the cyborg merely nodded to show that he was listening. After mirroring the gesture, Hanzo continued, “Do you truly believe that your scientist’s machine can bring the dead back to life?” Immediately, Genji bristled, his mind leaping to the implications, but Hanzo was quick to reassure him, “I only ask because I do not know.” And the thought of finding out…

Genji knew well the questions and fear that plagued his mind, as despite his own experience with the resurrection process, he was no closer to knowing the answers than he’d been before. But he couldn’t let that stop him from giving Overwatch everything he had to give and more. As many times as it took. 

At the end of the day, he didn’t expect Hanzo to do the same.

 

Hanzo’s death, when it finally happened, didn’t receive more than a passing thought, a brief mental note to talk to him about it after the mission’s completion. It wasn’t until the cargo had been safely secured that anyone thought to even ask where he was. 

76 hailed Winston on the comm link to check his status, only to be met with a harried growl, “Get them back to base, 76,” that was quickly cut off by buzzing static. 

The problem with the resurrection tech was that it was just as fallible to error as any other process. When utilized as frequently as Overwatch’s activities demanded, there was bound to be mistakes, bugs, mishaps. Which wasn’t a problem when it was a coffee machine or a car, but this was a man’s life in the balance. It was a risk they had all accepted without ever truly grasping. 

It was one thing to fall in battle. There was, at least, some measure of honor in that.

It was quite another to, after the smoke had settled, be deleted.

Through Winston and Athena’s combined efforts, they managed to locate and isolate Hanzo’s BioData from the current of the relentless information stream long enough for the team to return to Watchpoint. By the time of their arrival, Winston had rigged a flat screen to Athena’s mainframe. On its pixelated display, a single line could be seen rising and falling in jagged spikes. 

Tapping rapidly at multiple keyboards, with sheets of scrolling binary code reflected in his lenses, Winston grunted, gesturing offhandedly towards the monitor, “Those readings represent the current brain activity of Agent Shimada.” Outstripping the rest, Genji strode soundlessly towards the device with long, measured steps. While he might have been seen as unperturbed to an outsider, those who knew what to look for could tell that his movements were a little too stiff, his bearing a little too controlled when he stopped just short of colliding with the screen. Winston tracked the movement in his periphery, reluctant to split his attention when even a moment’s distraction could result in the digitized mental and physical mapping of a fellow agent being scattered to the four winds. “Athena had to scour the entire database to find hide or hair of him.” 

Although she wasn’t entirely sure of details, D. Va had no issues determining that whatever was going on, it was getting Winston all worked up and frustrated, which was never a good sign. “You can get him back, though, right?” She asked, shifting her weight slightly as her gaze flitted from the steady line on the screen to their resident genius. “He promised me I could braid his hair after this mission.”

Winston glanced back at her, visibly hesitated, then heaved a heavy sigh. There was no point trying to shield the younger members from a reality they were already well aware of, except… This wasn’t a causality of war. It was a technical error. A glitch. Something that shouldn’t have happened on his watch – shouldn’t have happened at all. “There… seems to be some kind of corruption in his data.” He paused, briefly confounded by a tricky bit of tangled code, before continuing, “It is vastly hindering the conversion process.” And as a result, what should have been instantaneous was instead taking hours and shaping up to be an all-night endeavor. Or it would be, if there were any hope of Hanzo lasting that long. “The problem is mainly that the systems are registering him as a temporary file, which would be fine, if Athena wasn’t updated with a constant influx of information at all times. Thus, low priority files are generally discarded to make room for more recent data.”

Standing with 76 towards the back, McCree made a strangled noise. “Low priority-"

But Winston, unconsciously curling his lips to reveal the gleaming fangs beneath, overrode him with a snappish, “Your bio information wasn’t meant to reside within the database long enough for the influx to become a problem.” 

“Shouldn’t there be some kind of emergency measures?" McCree insisted. "A back-up plan?”

Rubbing fiercely at his aching eyes, Winston answered with a tinge of desperation, “The resurrection technology does not have a failsafe because it _is_ the failsafe.”

The flickering pixels that formed the monitor’s screen glowed a soft blue. Genji hovered his palm over it, so close the lights played over the rounded edges of his fingers. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the sensation of the device humming beneath his palm. It occurred to him like a bolt through the chest that this could be the closest he would ever come to touching his brother again. “What can we do?” 

“Talk to him.” Stress and worry lines marked the scientist, standing out in stark contrast against his skin and black fur due to the pale illumination surrounding him on all sides. “Tell him to hold on while we figure out a way to bring him home.” 

It was telling them all that there was nothing they could do but wait and pray in the kindest way possible, but even knowing that, Genji clung to the suggestion, because when you’re drifting out to sea, a piece of flimsy driftwood was better than nothing. 

Since there was little to no adequate technical expertise to contribute amongst the lot of them – not even Hana’s quick mind and deft fingers could keep up with Winston at his current pace – they settled into stations. McCree and 76 instinctively settled towards the main exit, seated on the floor with their backs propped against opposite walls. The cowboy had his wide-brimmed hat tipped forward, scarlet serape wrapped around his chest like a blanket. Across from him, the soldier kept his posture rigid, his visor gazed unerringly at the clusters of insulated wires and metal pipes that powered Watchpoint. But despite their differing demeanors, they each shared something very important in common – their trigger fingers were dangerously close to their firearms at all times. 

As any fool crazy or dumb enough to try to disturb their teammates right now would soon find out. 

The rest of them gathered close to Genji, whose silent nod was all the permission they needed to launch into tales of home, on the off chance that the archer could hear and focus on the sound of their voices. With a curtain of bronze hair swaying from shoulder to shoulder, Hana rocked idly, falling easily into a rhythm as she chatted about Korean food she missed. Although the meals served at her military base hadn’t exactly been gourmet, she admitted that she missed her mother’s stew and kimchi, missed bibimbap and, “and spicy food that’s actually hot.” 

Beside her, Lucio bobbed his head in tacit agreement. “Got that right. Tabasco doesn’t cut it. You ain’t never had heat ‘til you had a good ol' ghost pepper in your mouth.”

Their conversation had a calming effect on the others, who sank into its ebb and flow, allowing the words to become an indistinct hum that kept the persistent _blip blip_ of the monitor from filling every space and corner. It was almost enough to distract from the increasing intervals between each spike, the gradual shortening of their apex that pointed to a lessening in the archer’s activity. 

It could have been nothing.

They knew so little about this technology that it could have been an indicator that the archer had, impossibly, found a way to mimic the sleep cycle. No other member had existed in their data form long enough for such a thing to be necessary, nor had they ever shown signs of consciousness.  


But the other, more likely possibility was that the archer’s collective identity was being chipped away as random bits of code were broken off and flung through cyberspace. 

Suddenly, the readings on the monitor became erratic. A keening shriek echoed through the lab as the jagged line jumped all over the screen before slowing to a crawl. 

Though he hunkered down further over the keyboard, somehow shrinking in size as he did so, Winston’s rapid typing came to a halt. Glancing at the monitor with a grave, haunted expression, he muttered, “It seems we’ve run out of time.” Turning to face his team, he continued clearly, so that all of his fellow Overwatch agents could hear, “If we wait any longer, the degradation will become too severe and there won’t be enough of him left to save.” When he put it like that, the appropriate course of action seemed obvious. If only it were that simple. “However, if we try to force the conversion, he may vanish entirely. We might very well lose the only chance we have left of saving him.” 

“The decision is ultimately in your hands, Genji,” Winston said gently, and not entirely without pity. “If you need time to-

Before he could finish, Genji squared his shoulders, his visor flaring a brilliant green that hungrily consumed the shadows in its wake, “Do it.”

After taking a moment to gauge his seriousness, Winston began inputting the code for the conversion sequence. He could only hope that the cyborg understood the ramifications of what he was doing. 

There weren’t any bells or whistles to mark the start of the process, but there should have been. There should have been flashing lights and sirens, dramatically timed music to enhance the atmosphere. Instead, a button pressed with slightly too much force was determined to either be the archer’s saving grace or the final nail in his coffin. 

The monitor spiked, causing Winston to wonder briefly if a consciousness converted into floating data could feel fear. 

Then, with a sad whine, the line fell flat. 

Time stretched. Expanded. Then it sped forward, and Winston dropped his head into his hands. Holding back tears, Hana reached for Genji’s arm, seeking to comfort, seeking comfort, but he pulled away, shrugging her off without a word, and left. 

 

_**Two Months Later** _

_Remember_ , Winston’s voice crackled over the comm, _you’re there to make an assessment of anti-omnic sentiment in the area and determine if there are any indications that Null Sector’s been recruiting. You are not, by any means, to interfere._

It wasn’t a mission Genji had volunteered for, but that hardly mattered anymore. He went where Overwatch sent him. It was easier that way. 

The only difference was that Zenyatta had personally requested his presence, which made considerable sense, as a cyborg and an omnic were far more likely to gain access to the underground circles of discontent writhing beneath the city, but though there was plainly more to it than that, the monk was not to be rushed when it came to enlightening his pupil on the motives behind his methods. 

For his part, at least, Genji was content to wait. In truth, it took more effort than he currently had any desire of mustering to care more than a fraction about what was expected of him. As long as he was always moving, his mind too busy planning his survival from one breath to the next to dwell on the past, the details were irrelevant. 

And so, it was with a dispassionate air that he surveyed the graffiti layered over the crumbling sidewalks, the single-level dwellings clustered so closely the inhabitants couldn’t spit without hitting their next-door neighbor’s stoop. Or, occasionally, their next-door neighbor.

Children dressed in rags played barefoot in the streets, each of them coated in mud and dirt so thick it was impossible to distinguish the brownish tinge of sun and wind exposure on their rough skin from the telltale signs of poverty and neglect. Their limbs are too thin, too fragile – birdlike and covered in sores. 

Their dull, shadowed eyes flick to the omnic pair as they passed, curiosity momentarily sparking in their depths. Genji held no illusions about how long their presence in the irradiated outskirts of the former Australian Outback would go undetected by the local anti-omnic terrorist cell, if there truly was one. Kids like them wouldn’t think twice about trading information for clean water and food scraps. 

Weathered, prematurely aged faces followed their footsteps from the threshold of every doorway. Genji stared at each of them without flinching. It was unwise to display any signs of fear or weakness when surrounded by starved scavengers. “For what reason,” he said lowly, for Zenyatta alone to hear, “did you insist we come to this forsaken place?”

After pausing to offer the group of children they’d passed a friendly wave – they’d stopped playing their games, Genji noticed, and were instead standing frozen, locking them with blank stares like sharks smelling blood in the water – Zenyatta replied with his custom serenity, “To remind you of what it is you fight for.”

Tension settling in his shoulders, Genji spared the wild, nearly feral children little more than one last brief, appraising glance. “I do not fight for them.” 

They were remnants of a dying world, playing amongst the dilapidated structures that would one day be their tomb. There was no saving this town, no saving its people. 

At his side, Zenyatta hummed softly, as though he’d voiced a valid point, but didn’t press him on it. Which was just as well, as something told the ninja that company would soon be arriving. 

That Winston believed they could step foot in this festering wasteland without drawing attention showed how naïve he still was, though a leader who needed the support of those he led to stand at his tallest held its own appeal. 

Even so, when the streets mysteriously emptied, Genji knew it was time to leave.

The residential district had transitioned into something more industrial, with the wreckage of boxy office buildings and factories bordering the widening road ahead. 

There was evidence of bullet-holes in the windows that weren’t lying in shattered pieces on the sidewalks, and charred craters in the stone walls and gouged out of the ground. 

Tapping his comm to activate the microphone, Genji called in for an immediate extraction. The only response he received was static, meaning they were already within range of a signal jammer. 

Men swarmed out from behind corners, doorways, and the rusted corpses of vehicles long abandoned to the elements. Most of them were missing teeth, others were missing patches of hair from their scalps and dry, stringy beards, but that didn’t stop them from leering at the master and his student with gumless maws and crazed, bloodshot eyes. 

“You’re early.” Genji was surprised by how self-assured he managed to sound when his mind was racing through potential escape routes. “Scavengers usually wait until the prey is defenseless or dead before revealing themselves, but I can assure you,” deciding that there was no way to end this conflict without a fight, Genji unsheathed his blade in a single fluid motion, “that we are neither.” The declaration was greeted by devilish cackles.

Undeterred by the threat, the men drew closer, tightening their circle, forcing Genji and Zenyatta towards the center of the ambush. To them, omnics and those like them weren’t truly alive, meaning they would harbor no qualms about dismantling them and selling them for parts. While Genji had fought tougher opponents under steeper odds, the sheer number of humans, their penchant for explosions, and little regard for their own lives complicated the task ahead, especially if putting them out of commission permanently was off the table. 

The closest of the men took a menacing step forward, tossing several grenades carelessly in the air and catching them like they were harmless toys, but before Zenyatta could unleash an orb to disarm him, a youthful voice, brimming with self-assuredness and a trace of mischief, called out from the closest rooftop overlooking the scene, “You look like you could use a hand.” 

A tremor of apprehension worked its way through the gathered crowd. They glanced up warily, with Zenyatta following suit, as his curiosity had been peaked by the young omnic. Genji, however, had gone very still. He didn’t look up, could scarcely even trust himself to stand. 

His instincts screamed that he knew that voice, but it was lacking the roughness characteristic of age and grief, rendering it both less and more familiar to him than he could possibly begin to process under the circumstances. Even so, there was something off about it, a mechanical distortion reminiscent of synthesized speech. 

“Get stuffed, Rusty,” a lunatic with stringy blond spikes shouted at the top of his lungs. “Ya missed your chance and now you’re just gonna have ‘ta wait yer turn.”

A bright chuckle drifted down from the rooftop, followed by the atmosphere becoming strained as an unnatural silence descended, along with a charge, as though the world were poised at the edge of a pin's head, teetering towards an abyss. It was that dread, that potential, that finally exploded when the silence was decimated by the sound of a bestial roar. “Ha! You Junkheads never learn, do you?”

Hope burst within Genji, shattering with razor edges that embedded themselves into every vulnerability they could find, drawing blood and oil in equal measure. His head shot up to see azure dragons gleaming with streaks of gold flickering over their scales as they twisted across the roiling clouds of a perpetual sunset. In a moment, they circled around, returning to the omnic’s side to nudge him playfully with their massive muzzles. After releasing a peal of delighted laughter at their gentle insistence, the black and white-plated omnic placed his palms upon their snouts, then whispered in tones just below the range of an unaugmented human’s ability to grasp, “Don’t hurt them, okay? Just give them a good scare.”

As though eager to please, the ancestral beasts surged over the roof’s edge, pouring down the building’s side with a radiating force that shook the ground and surrounding structures. Shards of glass rained down on the Junker’s heads, forcing them to throw their arms up in a defense that proved itself to be meager and downright ineffectual when the dragons swooped down with their fangs bared.

Shrieking, the wild men scattered without a thought for the safety of their comrades, skittering like roaches back to whatever hole they’d crawled out of. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Once the dragons had dissolved, returning to the ether with a growl of satisfaction at their enemy’s retreat, the omnic slid down the exposed framework of the building he’d stood on, knocking off more glass as he went. Now that he was closer, Genji could better make out the featureless armored plating that constituted his face, and the cross of light blue that cut through it. There were stabilizing antenna on the sides of his head, much like his own, and his right arm was reinforced with the chipped and battered remains of blue armor, giving the impression that the omnic was wearing the sleeve of a kyudo-gi. “Those fools have less than a brain between the lot of them,” he continued amiably after his feet had touched the ground, “but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Alone, they’re a handful, but that’s nothing compared to the damage they can do when they gang up on you.”

“You asked the dragons to spare them,” Genji heard himself ask tightly. “Why?”

The omnic stopped his careful approach through the minefield, tilting his head curiously to the side as though he didn’t quite understand the question. “Isn’t it obvious?” When Genji remained silently yet intensely focused on him, the omnic nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh. I guess it’s not. Well…” He raised upturned hands in a small shrug, unaware of the concern emanating from the cyborg’s companion, “everyone deserves a second chance, right?”

Stomping down on an urge to hold his head and groan, the cyborg instead snapped, “How did you come into possession of those dragons?” It came out harsher than he'd intended, almost accusatory, but rudeness was so low on Genji's list of concerns at the moment that he either didn't notice or didn’t care. “None but the Shimada can wield them.”

“Are they yours? I’d give them back, but…” He sounded sincere, like he really would give them back if he could. His shoulders slumped, “I don’t really know how. I actually only discovered how to summon them a short while ago, but it feels like they’ve been with me for as long as I can remember.” Though it was depicted with flaking gold paint, swirls of clouds and scales decorated the omnic’s armored right arm. Compared to the original, the design was nothing but a cheap and soulless imitation. 

And yet, it had channeled the might and will of the dragons flawlessly, and to a degree that not even Hanzo had accomplished since... 

Floating serenely above the ground with his legs folded, Zenyatta gently addressed the omnic, “If you do not mind my asking, young one, how old are you?”

He didn’t appear to mind the question. “A little over a month, I think?” 

“I see.” There was a lull in the conversation as the monk deliberately hesitated to continue, but Genji exhibited no desire to once more involve himself. Indeed, it was as though he was hardly present at all, instead retreating deep within his own mind. After promising himself that he would check on his student’s well being as soon as the opportunity presented itself, Zenyatta turned his attention once more to the young omnic. “And what shall we call you?”

Flicking its blank and featureless face plate towards the quiet cyborg, the omnic replied, “The Junkers call me Rusty, but only because it’s short for Rust Bucket.” He paused, thinking it over. “I’d actually prefer it if you didn’t call me that.” 

Chuckling, Zenyatta warmly agreed, “Indeed. Such a name hardly suits you.”

It was a petty omnic slur, certainly not something that could be regarded as a name, but the omnic had never been referred to as anything else. He ventured to ask if Zenyatta had any good ideas, since he’d been trying to choose his own for some time, but nothing felt right. He was hoping for something a little more dignified. Something strong. Something like-

Without lifting his head, Genji breathed, “Hanzo.”

Its quiet intensity jarred, catching the young omnic off-guard and briefly brought the conversation to a grinding halt as the attention fell on him. But the cyborg didn’t elaborate, didn’t acknowledge the weight of Zenyatta’s worry weighing down on him. When it became clear that he had slipped back into silence, the young omnic made a thoughtful sound, “Actually… that feels like it fits. Do you mind if I use it?”

Like a marionette spurred into motion, Genji turned sharply, beginning the long walk back to the extraction point before the pressure in his chest threatened to expand and overwhelm him. He focused his emotions to a single, compact point, heavy and cold but distant to a degree that he could concentrate on navigating the dangerous terrain long enough to get his master back to Watchpoint. 

The young omnic reached for him, “Hey wait, what’s-“ but was immediately rebuffed when Genji yanked his arm out of reach. With his shoulders hunched and his green visor flaring as his fingers gripped tightly the hilt of his blade, the cyborg appeared to be on the cusp of an assault. 

His katana flashed with a brilliant light, and in its sharpened, curved edge, the young omnic saw fangs. 

“Genji!” Zenyatta’s reprimand cut through the tension, effectively ending the conflict before it could begin, as Genji forced his back to straighten out of the crouch it’d instinctively fallen into. Knowing he’d nearly lost control, he stalked off, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the artificial life that wielded his brother’s dragons, leaving the young omnic, confused and upset by his behavior, to wonder what he'd done to offend him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually, I'd leave this up in the air, but I'd like to give you a heads up on what's coming. The next chapter will be a Harry Potter au, followed by the last chapter of The Rift, and then the second and last installment of _if i could save you_. 
> 
> Well, that's all I have for now. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.


	21. Here, There Be Boggarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever thought showing a boggart to emotionally unstable adolescents was a good idea should honestly rethink their lesson plans. (Harry Potter au)

_The third year Gryffindors and Slytherins filed into their Defense Against The Dark Arts class with high hopes for the second trimester. Although it was Professor Morrison’s first year teaching at Hogwarts, he’d already proven himself to be far more capable than those who had come before. For one, he was about a decade younger than most of them, though his thinning cornstarch hair and the burgeoning wrinkles around his eyes suggested otherwise. He also never talked down to his students, never treated them like they were anything less than the gifted witches and wizards they each strived to be, and centered his curriculum on a less traditional, more hands-on approach._

_The classroom’s outer wall was decorated with hanging jars of formaldehyde, each containing the preserved carcass of a magical creature, some of which they’d seen brought into the class and studied. In one jar, there appeared to be an unborn fetus of a fish creature that floated within the glass, its eyes closed as though resting. Its head was bald, and a little too flat and long to be mistaken for human, though the tentacles stemming from its lower half would have certainly given that away._

_Strange as it was, Genji would have much preferred to see the creature alive. However, as that would have required jumping into the Great Lake and deliberately putting himself within stabbing range of aquatic warriors that were known to be territorial… Well, it was safe to say that he was content with seeing if Professor Morrison had planned any future lessons around them at some point over the course of the year._

__

__

_There were no chairs for them to sit in this time, so the students remained standing in haphazard, shaky rows, while their professor stood beside an antique armoire that shook like something or someone was trapped inside._

_Genji snagged a free spot beside the American transfer student, Jesse McCree. Although he wore the red and gold robes customary to Gryffindor, there were high leather boots on his feet that pretty clearly violated Hogwarts dress code. He’d at least removed the spurs, though, as they’d continuously gotten caught in the hem of his robes. He’d first arrived from IIvermorny with a Stetson on his head, but a certain Slytherin prefect had drawn the line at the hat and confiscated it. To be honest, Genji was still working on trying to get it back._

_Recognizing him, McCree flashed him a wide, excited grin before returning his attention to the the shuddering armoire. Once they were all settled, Morrison asked, “Could any of you tell me what a boggart is?”_

_A cheerful voice coming from McCree’s opposite side piped up, “It’s a magical creature that takes on the form of our worst fears, Professor.” Craning his neck to catch side of her, Genji raised a brow at the shorthaired young witch. He didn’t remember Lena entering the classroom with them. Was she late? If so, then Morrison hadn’t commented on it._

_It was a sentiment McCree echoed eloquently. “Now just wait a doggone minute- When the blazes did she get here?!”_

_Their professor whistled low, offering Lena a tired look of approval. “Excellent, Oxton. Five points to Gryffindor.” She puffed up her chest, preening under the praise._

_“Now,” Morrison continued, straightening from his relaxed slouch as he began to address the entire class, “there’s a spell I’m going to show that works wonders with a boggart. It’s called, Ridikulous.” He swished his wand through the movements, which were simple enough to remember. Whereas some spells required precision, this one was more reliant on the thought behind it. If the students didn’t believe it would work, it wouldn’t. “Repeat that a few times without your wands.”_

_He waited until they’d completed the exercise before explaining that the key to getting rid of a boggart was laughter, the very opposite of fear. “When you can force it to assume the shape of something that will make you laugh, that’s when you’ve won.” There was something to be said for the acoustics in the classroom, since he hardly seemed to raise his voice a decibel above the average speaking volume, and yet everyone in the room could hear him as clearly as if he were standing right next to them._

_Hands clasped behind his back, Morrison called Jesse McCree to the front of the class, but since he was already standing at the front, the rest of the students did him the favor of taking a large step back. Upon seeing that even Lena and Genji had followed suit, Jesse shot them a wounded look of betrayal, which admittedly did make Genji feel a pang of guilt, though it wasn’t anywhere near enough to convince him to volunteer alongside him, or worse, take his place. Instead, Genji responded with a small shrug and silently wished him the best._

_Going by the stricken expression on the American boy’s face, it did nothing to lessen his feelings of abandonment._

_“Alright,” Morrison started, either ignoring or oblivious to his bellyaching, “what are you most afraid of?”_

_Sliding into the spotlight with a showman’s ease, Jesse shucked off his nerves and let loose a charming grin, “I reckon nothin’ much, Sir, ‘cept maybe homework.” The class tittered, letting out much of their apprehension in the brief sound, which was already a step in the right direction._

_“Alright, class, settle down.” Placing a heavy hand on Jesse’s shoulder, Morrison steered him towards the armoire. “Hold onto the image of what you are most afraid of, and then on the count of three, I want you,” leaning in close, the professor whispered his instructions into McCree’s ear. Whatever he said, the boy brightened, his spine straightening as he leveled his wand at the dusty antique._

 _While the entire class watched in anticipation, Morrison counted to three, his pale blue eyes shining a little brighter, and then with a swift flick of his wand, the wardrobe’s metal knob jerked to the right, and the door slowly began to swing open, all the while issuing an ominous creak that sent chills through the students._

_A long, low warning hisss issued from the crack, followed by a pair of slitted eyes that glowed like fire pits from out of the darkness. Soon, a giant rattlesnake, its flat head rising until it towered over the entire class, had uncoiled from the wardrobe. On its head rested a stetson with a leather cord tied around its cap, there were spurs tied around its tail, and from its needle-thin fangs dripped tendrils of yellowish poison._

_Gritting his teeth, Jesse readjusted his grip on his wand, but the snake must have assumed he was hesitating, because it threw its head back with a sibilant cackle. Then with a voice like tar and oil, it sneered, “Ya think yer better than us cuz’ ya know a few parlor tricks now, boy?”_

_Quietly, Morrison urged him to cast the spell, but McCree wasn’t paying attention to him, anymore. His focus was entirely on the snake. Though his face was paler than a sheet, something hard and cold with hate came over him. “It ain’t parlor tricks,” Jesse growled, and a blasting curse flew from his wand, setting the snake’s tail alight. “And I_ am _better than you.”_

_Though it was clear that his turn was over, there was not a hint of laughter in the room when McCree turned his back on the creature’s agonized thrashing to rejoin the class._

_Morrison frowned. “That wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but since it was your first try I’ll let it slide. Next time, though, try using the spell I taught you.” Louder, he said, “To the rest of you, get in a single file line and, for Merlin's sake, think of something funny!”_

_They struggled to form a line, like a giant centipede with legs that pushed and shoved and tripped over themselves. A girl in pigtails was pushed to the front, and the snake spun into a tight ball, before springing outwards in the form of a massive mosquito._

_Stumbling back a step, the girl cried out, “Ridikulous!” and the insect became a hummingbird tooting kazoo sounds into the air. She giggled, and it caught like a flame, setting off the entire class. It wasn’t long until the first turn was forgotten, buried by tap dancing spiders and a crocodile that could do ballet._

_Then Lena stepped up, bouncing on her heels with excitement. The boggart condensed, spun, providing glimpses of all the myriad of phobias and anxieties it was surrounded by, and when it finally decided on a form, standing before Lena was none other than a mirror image of herself._

_If there were a record playing it would have scratched, because the confusion brewing crowded out much of the cheer, though Morrison simply looked exasperated by the latest hiccup in what was supposed to be a fun lesson. At first, the mirror Lena was content to merely mimic her movements, but gradually her form became indistinct, flickering in and out of existence with a silent scream._

_The true Lena couldn’t look away from the scene, couldn’t lift her arm or move her lips to form a spell that had been wiped entirely from her mind. Eventually, the Gryffindor prefect, Fareeha Amari, tried to pull her gently to the back of the line, but Lena shrugged her off, seemingly snapping out of whatever daze had taken hold of her, “No, wait,” she took a deep, steadying breath, “I can do this.”_

_Once the spell was cast, a pair of rollerblades appeared on the substantially more solid boggart’s feet, and it skated up the walls, making a full run around the room, a streak of orange and blue blinking effortlessly in and out of time as the class watched in awe._

_Shaking his head with quiet amusement, the professor then announced that the next up would be the last for the day, and thus, it happened that Genji stepped up to face Lena’s shadow. She stared at him for a moment, then a smirk quirked her lips, making him swallow down his nervousness because even though the boggart looked like the perky witch in every way, that expression was decidedly too mean, too downright nasty to belong on her face._

_She spun around, blurring, and Genji waited, ready, the spell resting at the tip of his tongue… until his older brother stepped forward, pale and drawn, with a katana in his grasp that dripped blood at his feet._

 

It started with the stares.

Hanzo could feel them pressing on his back as he walked the halls. 

Most of the Hogwarts staff and students knew of his lineage the instant they learned his name - the Shimada were a renowned family of Purebloods, after all. The rumors surrounding his family - that they’d delved in dark magic, making deals with ancient beasts for powers that were beyond the realm of mortal understanding – had followed him throughout the years, but enough time had passed since his sorting that his ancestry had virtually ceased to be interesting. Instead of Hanzo, a Shimada and potential dark wizard, he was simply Hanzo, a strict but fair Slytherin prefect.

He hadn’t realized how much the distinction meant to him until it seemed to be on the cusp of slipping away. 

Youthful faces turned abruptly or hid behind conveniently open books when he attempted to make eye contact, and it wasn’t long before he realized that the students, and especially the Gryffindors, seemed to be avoiding him. 

The worst was when he tried to get in contact with his little brother, whose seat he’d noticed had been suspiciously empty during the last few meals in the dining hall. Just when he’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of his spiky head amongst the sea of gold and scarlet robes, the students converged around Genji, blocking him from sight like lions protecting their young. Normally, Hanzo would have been less than impressed by the gesture, but with each of them wearing such fierce glares, he actually found himself taking a step back. 

_“Genji… you are a disgrace to the Shimada name.” The class, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, gasped as one when the boggart clad in his older brother’s form lunged, and Genji, forgetting his wand, scrambled out of the way, desperate pleas bubbling past his lips._

_Before the boggart could attempt a second strike, however, Jesse and Lena leapt in front of Genji, each of them grinning audaciously with their wands raised and a spell on their lips, “Ridikulous!”_

_Within seconds, a translucent rattlesnake with rollerblades attached to its scaly underbelly popped into existence. When it attempted to strike, it found that it couldn’t get any purchase, and slipped and rolled awkwardly across the wood flooring. It was such a sight, with its comically widened eyes and distressed hissing, that the students couldn’t help but laugh, softly at first and then with added feeling._

_Meanwhile, Jesse and Lena refused to let Genji come out from behind them, and together formed a defensive wall around the young Gryffindor that kept him safely out of the boggart’s sight._

_“Okay, class,” Morrison intercepted the confused boggart, briefly turning it into a beautiful miniature of a moonlit night, “that’s more than enough for today.” After casting the spell, he grabbed the moon like a pearly basketball, dribbled it, and then tossed it back into the wardrobe._

_Ignoring groans of disappointment and papers rustling as the students prepared to move to their next class, Morrison turned to the odd Gryffindor trio still clustered by the wall, “You three.” Two of them straightened, having been interrupted in the middle of delivering a thumbs-up that was as reassuring as it was blessedly corny. “I’ll let your teachers know you’ll be a few minutes late to your next class. There’s something I’d like to speak with you about.”_

“I just do not know what I did wrong,” Hanzo groused irritably to a Slytherin first year in their house common room. Her name was Hana, and she was draped gracelessly over a striped green armchair, her focus zeroed in on the handheld gaming device in her hands with a frightening intensity, despite the confiscated cowboy hat, which Hanzo had no memory of letting her borrow, that kept threatening to fall over her eyes. Despite the rather adverse effect areas of concentrated magic, like wizarding schools, had on electronics, she’d somehow managed to get her own to work, and she put that revolutionary knowledge to good use by becoming the sole live streamer at Hogwarts. 

While she defended her title as the current reigning champion of Mario Cart, Hanzo, continued to brood on a couch that smelled mildly of mildew, as most things did in the dungeon.

It didn’t bother him much that she didn’t seem to be listening. Actually, he preferred it, since voicing his troubles aloud was often enough to make him feel leagues better, but now he was genuinely at a loss for what to do. It wasn’t like he could stalk the halls, intimidating third years into telling him where his brother was. That would be a blatant abuse of his prefect status and if word spread that he was throwing his weight around like a common bully, he was sure the privilege would be summarily revoked. 

There was a smack of loud chewing, and then a massive blue bubble expanded from Hana’s lips, before it suddenly burst, leaving her with a subtle bluish tint around her mouth. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“Have you not been listening?” Though it was already clear that she hadn’t been, her flippant response nonetheless nettled. “ _I can’t-_ ”

“Then maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough,” she interrupted with another obnoxious smack of her gum. There was a series of descending musical notes as her screen flashed with bright, rainbow letters, _Game Over._

Frustration boiling over, Hanzo nearly snapped at her for the careless comment, then immediately thought better of it. He couldn’t exactly blame her for giving bad advice when she was doing him a favor just by listening to him complain, an act which wouldn’t have been necessary if he’d put a little more effort into making friends his own age. And once he’d successfully cleared his head, he realized she was actually right. There was something he could do, something that he hadn’t even considered, because if bullying children would get him demoted, this would get him expelled. 

A plan in mind, he got up to leave. “Tell anyone who asks that I was here with you the entire time and I will get you more of that gum from Hogsmeade.” 

Hanging her head over the armrest with her game still flashing in her hands, Hana fixed him with an upside-down grin that could only be described as wolfish. 

“Deal.”

 

Since the halls were practically abandoned during the afternoon dining hour, with the exception of stragglers and those trying to get some last minute studying in, and he knew that Genji would very likely be skipping supper again, Hanzo decided that it would be the perfect time to sneak into Gryffindor tower. 

His paws scrambled on the stone tile flooring beneath for purchase as he navigated through the corridors, desperate not to get lost or stepped on, though keeping low and to the shadows felt natural enough to him that he needn’t have worried. 

Stealth just seemed to come with the territory of being an unregistered animagus.

It also helped that there were few students who paid any attention to the ground when they walked. It certainly worked out in his favor, as he was not once accosted by anyone desiring to capture or (debatably worse) pet him before he was raising his head beseechingly at the Gryffindor’s painted guardian. 

The lady in the portrait bore a plumpness characteristic of those from her time in possession of wealth and means, and wore her brunette tresses in curled ringlets that bounced merrily as she regretfully shook her head. “Sorry, dearie,” she whispered to the azure creature glittering prettily as it brushed its scales against her frame, “but there’s nothing can do if you don’t have the password.” 

_And even if it did have the password, it couldn’t very well communicate to her_ , she didn’t add.

She stared down at the young serpent when it wound itself into a coil, regarding the animal with suspicion before her brows suddenly arched in surprise. “Oh! You’re a student, aren’t you?” She smiled kindly, knowing now that the creature was nothing that may harm the students. “An animagus, and at such a young age.” Sighing, her eyes distant with nostalgia, she added, “I haven’t seen that in quite some time.” 

Uncurling his long, slender body so that he could raise his head and front paws off the ground, Hanzo communicated through a series of low hisses and quick snaps, _I apologize for approaching you in this form, but circumstances demand it. Could you please grant me access to the Gryffindor common room? I’m not going in there to cause trouble. I just want to talk to my brother._

“I’m sorry,” and she sounded like she meant it, “but my answer hasn’t changed. No password, no entry.”

Hanzo did his best not to growl in frustration, as it was significantly more challenging not to give into such urges when transformed, _Could you simply tell me the password?_

“Nice try, dear, but no.”

There was a _click click_ of golden claws hitting the tile and then Hanzo leapt onto the painting, hooking his claws into the canvas. Predictably, the Fat Lady let out a startled shriek, and tried to shoo him away, but he held fast, even pawed lightly at the magically reinforced material to rile her up further. It felt almost mean-spirited to antagonize her like this when she’d been so kind to him, but it was the only thing he could think of to get into the tower. 

And everyone knew that what the Fat Lady may have lacked in singing ability, she more than made up for with lung capacity. 

It wasn’t long before the passage to Gryffindor tower was opened from the inside by a dark-skinned boy poking his close-cropped head out to see what the commotion was. For a moment, his brown eyes met the slitted pupils of the miniature dragon swinging off of the Fat Lady by its front paws, both of them too shocked to moved, and then Hanzo rocketed through the crack, sprinting over the boy’s shoulder and into the tower before the bewildered first year could finish processing the situation. 

The shouts coming from behind Hanzo only spurred him on, driving him to power past the burning in his muscled legs and the panic hammering away in his chest. 

“Is that a _dragon?!_ ”

“Quick, someone catch it!”

It appeared that the common room was not as empty as he’d hoped, as reaching arms seemed to come from all angles. He swerved, zigzagging right and left to avoid the pair of second years, a boy and girl, attempting to corral him. It was when they attempted to throw a blanket over him that his claws lost purchase and he slammed into a nightstand, knocking over a silver goblet filled with pumpkin juice and an oil lamp that nearly shattered on his tail. 

He climbed onto a scarlet armchair, leapt onto the ledge atop the fireplace, then pushed against it with his hind legs, propelling himself over the heads of the shocked students until his claws managed to snag on the chandelier, where he dangled, feeling helpless and looking foolish. 

This was the sight which greeted Genji when he walked into the common room to see what all the fuss was about. The students had drawn their wands, apparently tired from chasing him around the room and wary of grabbing his tail - as they should be - when Genji cried out, “Wait!” They all swiveled to stare at him, Hanzo included. Genji swallowed, suddenly nervous. “That’s my pet. I think someone might have transfigured him into a dragon as a prank.” As though to prove it, he stepped under the chandelier, his arms outstretched and a silent plea in his eyes. 

Huffing softly, Hanzo retracted his claws, allowing himself to fall into his little brother’s waiting embrace. Looking pleased, Genji grinned at the others, as if to say, _See?_

Since the animal did seem to like him, the Gryffindors accepted Genji’s claim without any further suspicion, and settled back into their armchairs to study. Professor Reyes was rumored to be giving out surprise quizzes in Potions and none of them wished to find out what horrors awaited the unprepared. 

Holding the dragon close to his chest, though it wriggled it out of his grasp once they were safely out of the common room, preferring to drape itself around his neck and shoulders like a living scarf, Genji rushed to regain the solitude of his own room, before carefully pulling the dragon off him and holding it out so that their eyes were level when he whispered fiercely, “ _Anija_ , are you crazy? What would you have done if they had caught you?” 

Been expelled, probably. 

Everyone knew there was a clear No Dragons rule at Hogwarts, so it would have been only a matter of time before the students mentioned him to one of the teachers or staff, and inevitably, his status as an illegal and underage animagus would have been discovered. 

“Hey, are you okay?” The sound of Genji’s voice, softer now, jerked Hanzo out of his thoughts. He tilted his head at the question, and chuffed in the hopes of getting Genji to elaborate. “You’re trembling.”

Mortified, Hanzo ducked his head, internally berating himself for allowing his instincts to control him to this extent. Instincts which told him, as ridiculous as the notion was, that he’d only narrowly escaped death. 

He squirmed, flicking his tail impatiently until Genji, rolling his eyes at being bossed around by a lizard, even if the lizard was his older brother, placed him down on the four-poster bed’s crimson comforter. To Genji’s surprise and amusement, the dragon didn’t settle down immediately, but instead rumbled quietly as it padded in circles, creating a dip in the comforter that it promptly settled into.

Fighting a smile, Genji flopped beside it, earning himself an affronted glare from the dragon. When he blinked, however, it had ceased to be a dragon, and beside him sat his brother, fully clothed in his Slytherin robes and equally disgruntled. He took a moment to compose himself, running palms down his head to smooth flyaways, before allowing them to rest at the base of his neck. Peering curiously at his little brother, who knew what was coming, Hanzo calmly asked, “Would you mind explaining to me why everyone in this school seems to think you in dire need of protection?”

 _From me_ , went unsaid. 

Genji heard it, anyway.

He shrunk into himself, ashamed of his behavior in the face of an imagined threat – the professor would have never allowed the boggart to actually harm him, after all – and of the domino effect it’d had on the school. There were terrible, nasty rumors going around about Hanzo. Rumors which he’d done his best to discredit, but anyone he tried to talk to seemed to either think he was too traumatized to admit the truth or covering for him out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. 

Sensing the turmoil swirling within him, Hanzo placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Whatever the reason, I swear to you I will not be upset. Just,” he took a deep, steadying breath, “tell me what happened.”

And so Genji did. Slowly at first, but faster as the words started to tumble out. 

It had started with Divination class. Professor Vaswani was known for making predictions that were sometimes a little… overly practical - the exact date and time of an impending cavity, while useful, was hardly exciting information - she’d seemed genuinely concerned when she’d read his future in the tarot cards she’d laid out in front of the class. 

_Someone dear to you will betray you_ , she’d told him, her amber eyes bright with sympathy, _and you will be reborn_. 

He’d brushed it off as nonsense at first, but then the nightmares started. Every night, he felt with terrifying clarity the chill of his brother’s blade as it ripped him open. Sometimes, the dream only lasted long enough for him to see Hanzo’s expression morph into a porcelain mask, and sometimes it lasted long enough for him to see both the mask and his brother shatter into pieces. 

Hanzo listened without comment until after Genji finished recounting his experience with the boggart, though his mouth curved with distaste at the thought of Professor Morrison setting a creature whose sole purpose in life was to provoke fear on a class of third years. “We could handle it,” Genji muttered when he mentioned it, bristling. 

Clearly that was not the case, but Hanzo held his tongue. 

He remembered the Divination professor from when he’d taken her class (it was required) and had been pleasantly surprised at how much he’d appreciated her approach. Instead of focusing on the mystic aspects of Divination, she’d guided them through the more spiritual and meditative side, showed them how to clear their minds, breath deeply and find their center. 

She’d talked about her home in India, what it was like to walk through crowded streets filled with colors and sounds and a million conversations, and to be so overwhelmed by it all that she spent every moment in public yearning for solitude and every moment in solitude dreading its inevitable end. 

But practicing Divination gave her focus. It gave her a way to connect with people on a level that surpassed words, surpassed the body, and touched the soul. And for that, she’d said with a slight smile, she’d always be grateful for the opportunity she’d been given to learn, practice, and share that connection with students who might be just as scared and nervous as she was. 

By the end of that first class, Hanzo had been so intrigued by the sheer amount of honesty and sincerity with which she’d talked about her own insecurities that he’d found himself taking an active interest in a class he’d initially written off as a waste of time.

Scaring a child to impress a class of teenagers just didn’t seem like her modus operandi.

But he would never harm his brother. 

“Divination,” Hanzo said at last, “is not an exact science.” And Genji nodded, waiting patiently for his brother to tell him something he didn’t already know. “The diviner is given symbols, images to interpret, but that interpretation can change. While I am not saying she is wrong, it is possible that she overestimated the severity of the betrayal.”

Glancing behind him, at the head of Genji’s twin-sized bed, Hanzo caught sight of the pachimari toy their father had sent Genji as a Christmas present during his first year at Hogwarts, and snatched it, then held it aloft, high over his head where Genji couldn’t reach no matter how high he jumped. Cackling like a villain, Hanzo crowed, “Yes, this toy is mine now. I shall take it to the dungeon for the snakes to feed upon, and you will never see it again!”

Realization creeping slowly over Genji’s face, he stopped trying to reach the toy, and instead threw himself over the bed. “Oh, what cruelty. What betrayal! And from my own brother!”

Unable to suppress a grin at Genji’s dramatics, Hanzo tossed the pachimari at his head before plopping down next to him. It bounced off harmlessly. “See? The prophecy’s been fulfilled. You have nothing to worry about, little brother.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” came the muffled reply from where Genji had buried his head in the comforter. “You’re never scared.”

For a moment, Hanzo was too stunned to reply. He hadn’t realized his brother had thought so much of him. “That’s not true.” With thoughts of the recent chase in the common room and the stomping of boots bringing a rueful curve to his lips, Hanzo sheepishly admitted, “Gryffindors scare me a great deal.”

A startled laugh erupted from out of the covers, and Hanzo leaned back, relaxing slightly. “Genji, everyone has things they’re afraid of. If there existed someone who feared nothing, not death or loss, then we would all know what boggarts truly look like.”

He watched as Genji gave a small nod, then finally straightened, pulling himself into a cross-legged sitting position. “Okay,” he breathed. “I believe you.”

And Hanzo sagged with relief, as a tension he hadn’t even realized existed dissipated into nothing. 

They settled into a comfortable silence, content to savor simply being in each other’s presence, since their age difference guaranteed that they didn’t share any classes, and being in different Houses made spending time together during study hall or at dinner kind of awkward. 

Finally, after he’d grown tired of watching Genji pick at the same scarlet string sticking out of his sheets, Hanzo announced that he needed to return to Slytherin House. Hana could only cover for him for so long before someone realized he was missing. 

Genji frowned, “Are you going to use your animagus form again?”

The thought of crawling through a common room filled with excitable children caused a shiver to run down Hanzo’s spine, but what other choice did he have? A Slytherin prefect couldn’t very well waltz right out of Gryffindor Tower without drawing unwanted attention.

While he mulled it over, Genji reached into his trunk to dig out a shapeless duffel bag. “Why don’t we use this to get you out?” Due to the eagerness and pride radiating from every inch of him, Hanzo regarded the bag with a caution he felt was entirely warranted. 

“I’m not going to fit in there, Genji.”

Looking entirely too pleased by this turn of events, Genji clarified, “Obviously not. Which is why you need to transform.” 

There were probably a thousand, more sensible ways to exit the tower undetected that didn’t require Hanzo transforming or being stuffed in a bag, but he was tired and Genji wouldn’t let this go until he got what he wanted, and so it was with no small amount of reluctance that he agreed to the plan. Inexplicably, his little brother’s grin widened, “And in exchange for me carrying you to the dungeons, you can give Jesse his hat back.”

Thoroughly exasperated, Hanzo threw up his hands, “I cannot believe we’re negotiating about this.” Knowing his brother could never say no to him for long, Genji dangled the duffel bag in what was meant to a tantalizing fashion. It was all Hanzo could do not to role his eyes so hard the nurse would have to shove them back into his head. “I’ll think about it.”

With any luck, Hana had not yet grown overly fond of it. 

He closed his eyes, allowing his magic to spread evenly throughout his body, and pictured his limbs shortening, growing thinner as scales erupted over their surface, scales that rippled in the light and fit together seamlessly, like a second skin. He could almost feel it, the lengthening of his teeth, the hard, lethal sharpness of his claws, when his already heightened hearing caught a quietly awed whisper, “You’ll teach me how to turn into a dragon someday too, right? 

Hanzo’s lips curled into a vague smile, eliciting a noise of frustration from his little brother, and then in an instant, Genji discovered that Hanzo had been replaced by a rather smug looking dragon. Before he could get another word out, the dragon rocketed into his duffel bag, rummaging through essays, notebooks, and homework until its slender body and tail were safely tucked inside and completely hidden from view. 

It wasn’t really fair of him to hold onto his secrets when Genji had been so honest with his, but Genji was sure that the right amount of persistent wheedling would break him down over time.

It always did.

When Genji slipped the duffel bag on, still miffed by the avoidance, he found it to be significantly heavier than he’d anticipated. “ _Anija_ ,” he grunted, readjusting the straps, “are you gaining weight?”

He tried to keep a straight face for when he walked into the common room, but there was a rustling in the bag, followed by a pressure on his back from where a clawed foot lightly kicked him through the fabric, and then it was all he could do not to dissolve into helpless giggles in full view of the other Gryffindors. Somehow, he managed to cling desperately to the last vestiges of his self-control long enough to burst out of the tower, having ignored every inquiring brow he'd passed. Once he was standing in the hall, he allowed a huge grin to spread across his face, and wound up making the trek to the dungeons with a noticeable spring in his step.

And why shouldn't he?

After all...

How many other kids could say their older brother was a dragon?


	22. Two Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about a breaking point is - it has to start somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I did say The Rift would be updated next, I realized that it'd make more sense tonally to have this piece posted first.

Not for the first time, Hanzo considered his own reflection in the full-length mirror with a scowl. His muscled legs looked slender in the tightly fitted black jeans Genji had lent him for the night, and his own white collared t-shirt rested loosely on his broad shoulders, untucked and unbuttoned to a degree that straddled the border of indecent. 

The young heir’s scowl deepened, hardened, as he berated himself for ever agreeing to accompany his brother and his friends to their karaoke night, but he’d promised Genji he’d spend time with him over the weekend, just as he’d promised his father that he’d look after him, and if by doing this he could keep his word to both, then he would push himself to his limits to do so, just as he always has. 

Finally, he turned his back on the mirror, because he’s checked the time and it’s already half past sick-of-looking-at-himself. He flopped on his bed, pushing aside piles of discarded outfits so that he could watch the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles until the dread curling in the pit eased slightly, enough that he no longer felt the urge to tear his clothes to shreds and shoot an arrow through the mirror. 

There must have been some way out of this, some manner in which he could keep his word to Genji that didn’t require him subjecting himself to the spiky-headed deviant's chosen entourage. He could ask to postpone, complain that he didn’t feel well (except a Shimada never admits to weakness, and Genji might actually cancel his plans if he thinks it's serious). It wouldn’t be entirely a lie, though. The empty bottle of water and severely depleted aspirin sitting on his bathroom floor are a testament to that. 

That’s another reason why Genji introducing him to his friends is a bad, bad, very bad idea – they might smell the death on him. Despite his furious scrubbing last night, Hanzo thinks he can still smell the coppery tang of the police informant’s blood under his fingernails. The execution had originally been assigned to Genji, as the Council willed it, but Genji never attended the meetings anymore, and so Hanzo had volunteered to do the deed in his stead, a proposal which was quickly seconded by their father, quickly enough, in fact, that Hanzo had felt within him a familiar twinge of resentment at both how willing a sacrifice he was and how willingly he was to be sacrificed. 

But it was necessary. Because Genji didn’t spend his nights hunched over a toilet seat when it was his turn to deliver punishment. No, his face shuttered, his hands remained steady, and shortly after the deed was done, he would laugh and smile as though nothing had happened, as though he’d already forgotten the blood crusting on his sword. Those who looked closely, though, could see the brittleness, the gradual chipping away of his boyish personality to something cold and ugly and, perhaps worst of all, cruel. 

If bearing the weight of death alone was the price of keeping his brother from turning into a monster, then it was a small price to pay, and if he kept telling himself that, Hanzo was sure he would continue to believe it. 

“Come on, Hanzo,” Genji had wheedled shortly afterwards, catching Hanzo in the hallway before he could make it back to his room to change. He was so used to getting his invitations rebuffed, though, that it was honestly more of an exercise in dramatics than any serious attempt at convincing him, “it’ll be fun.” And at that, he'd swung an arm around Hanzo’s shoulders, unaware of the significance of the sudden shift beneath him when Hanzo hastily moved to conceal the sullied hems of his sleeves, “Let’s you and me let loose a little, act like kids. Maybe even do something wild.” Silence stretched as Hanzo merely stared at him, thrown off by how surreal it felt to have his little brother asking to spend time with him for the first time in months when fresh blood spilled in his stead still dripped from his gi. Interpreting his silence as a refusal, Genji jostled him slightly, a grin spreading over his handsome features as he cajoled, “Forget about the family for once and come have a good time with me.”

“Well,” Hanzo relented, if only so that his brother would leave him alone long enough for him to clean himself up and maybe even patch some of his fraying edges before he disintegrated in a spectacular fashion, “I suppose I could use some fresh air.”

With ill-concealed shock, Genji breathed, “Good. That’s good. I mean…” He dragged a palm over his face, surprise and disbelief bleeding into the brightest sunshine grin. ”I can’t believe it.” It was contagious. For an instant, Hanzo’s thoughts weren’t rooted in shadows and blood, but in tentative hope. A hope which his acid green-haired little brother naturally had to ruin when he giddily and obliviously added, “My friends have been dying to meet you!”

Back in the present, Hanzo groaned once more at his reflection,“That’s it. This is pointless, the very height of foolishness. I own nothing suited for such an occasion, and have been assured that I possess exactly zero endearing traits. I'm staying home.” If anything, Genji's companions were going to instantly compare him to his younger brother, and no doubt wonder where the gene pool had gone so terribly, horribly wrong. 

Yes, it would be better for everyone if he just stayed in his room and eventually became one with his bed. He could rule the Shimada clan from his room, right? He was fairly certain there wasn’t any law saying he couldn’t.

“Hanzo, would you calm down?” He started at the sound of Genji rapping on the door, apparently having grown impatient with his endless prevaricating. “I can feel you freaking out in there a mile away. It’s making my teeth itch.” Indeed, there was thrum of tension in the air, a hum of electricity that raised the silky black hair fanned around his head. He frowned, willing the dragons within him to calm, sending thoughts within that all resembled the simple message of _safesafesafe_ as the spectral guardians were merely reacting to his own agitation. 

When the silence had stretched for an uncomfortable amount of time, there came the sound of metal scratching metal from the doorway. Genji had broken out his lock-picking kit. “What are you even doing in there?” The lock popped open with a click, much to Hanzo’s exasperation, followed shortly by Genji poking his spiky head in with a raised brow.

“I’m drafting my epitaph.” Hanzo said shortly. “Apparently, I was killed by a nosy brother with no respect for the privacy of his elders.”

“And mine killed me through the sheer force of his stubbornness,” Genji retorted as he pushed his way in, “I already told the guys you were coming tonight and they’re really excited to meet you.” Almost against his will, Hanzo flicked his dark eyes to see Genji looming at the side of his bed, looking as though he was seriously considering dragging Hanzo to the karaoke bar by his feet. There was a fist planted on his hip, and an overall assumption of body language that Hanzo recognized as his little brother at his most obstinate. This was a Genji who could not be reasoned with. Either Hanzo would leave on his own volition or he would spend the short side of eternity dealing with a glowering malcontent, because Genji wasn’t stepping foot outside the Shimada Castle without him. 

At long last, Hanzo swallowed down a lump of saliva that tasted like sour milk in his mouth, and rolled out of bed, slightly rumpled but still presentable. He didn’t fail to notice the stiffness melt from his brother’s shoulders at the sight of him apparently ready to step out into the world and meet people, though Genji did his best to mask it with an appraising glance up and down the length of his body and a satisfied crook of his lips. Settling on the jeans, he commented in the tone of someone who was extremely pleased with themselves, “I knew those would look good on you.”

All said, it seemed a little anti-climatic, but Hanzo had long run out of excuses to make. It was time to face his demons, even if his demons were a handful of teens with the latest fashion and bubble-gum for brains. 

It wasn’t until they were walking out into the courtyard, however, that Hanzo realized they were really doing this. He was leaving his home behind in the snow that swallowed it up after distance had rendered it small enough to fit in his palm if he angled it right. And could every _kami_ in existence just make note of the fact that he was walking past the boundaries of the Shimada Castle to fraternize with his so-called peers, because this was a momentous occasion that was highly unlikely to ever occur again. 

As was the state of Genji beside him. For once, he wasn’t covering up simmering anger with an apathetic shrug or an arrogant, challenging smirk. This wasn’t Genji forced into a spar he had no desire to participate in, or strong-armed into a meeting about clan politics that he couldn’t care less about. This was Genji in his element, among the bustling crowds, blinking lights, and neon signs. 

Whereas the Shimada Castle seemed to inhabit a space outside of time, the city was unmistakably modern, with skyscrapers and fast food restaurants galore. Even with hair the color of radioactive waste, Genji had never looked more at home. Every now and then, though, when he thought his brother wouldn’t noticed, his eyes would flick to Hanzo, to the awe illuminated on his features by the passing headlights of cars and signs on the street, and his lips would part slightly in surprise, his eyes going wide, as though he was having just as much difficulty accepting that this was real as Hanzo was. This was the first time in months that he would be spending time with his brother outside of training, and even that time had severely diminished once he’d started skipping sparring sessions, ditching meetings, and staying out until the early hours of the morning. 

When Hanzo turned to look at him, though, after they had crossed the street (at the crosswalk because, in public at least, they could project the image of proper law-abiding citizens) it was to see something ominous roll over his features, nebulous as the roiling, writhing clouds of an oncoming storm, rueful and twisting. Afterwards Genji lengthened his stride so that he outpaced Hanzo as they climbed the steps to the high glass building that contained the hotel and karaoke bar, a low mutter of, “I should’ve done this ages ago,” slipping past, and Hanzo slowed, hovering uncertainly at the entrance threshold, wondering what he’d done to trigger the change. But Genji waved at the receptionist with a glowing smile, seemingly back to his usual self, and Hanzo felt his own anxiety ease at the sight, although that really only succeeded in smoothing over his concerns regarding his brother, as the thought of meeting his friends – (people outside the family, who wouldn’t – couldn’t understand) – still left him a hair’s breadth from spinning on his heel and marching home. 

But he couldn’t disappoint Genji. Not this time. He’d already done so too much and too often, even if he hadn’t always had a choice in the matter. 

When at last the impending doom could be delayed no longer and Genji was holding the door open, inviting him wordlessly to step inside the booth where his friends were already participating in a rousing rendition of a sappy romantic power ballad about living on after loss. Instead of focusing on that, however, Hanzo zeroed in on how appropriate it was that his entrance be greeted by lyrics commonly associated with the tragedy of the once said to be unsinkable ocean liner that had sunk to the bottom of the sea, taking with it the lives of those who had pinned their hopes and dreams and futures on its success. 

Gods, no wonder Genji said he was depressing. 

But the teens didn't seem to care for the context, as they belted out the high notes with the gusto of a tone-deaf cockatoo, substituting ability with feeling and boundless energy. The air was thick with the tang of sweet alcohols and sweat, but they grinned openly when Genji added his own dulcet tones to the chorus, and hurriedly passed him a microphone. Hanzo pushed aside a purse sitting on the plush cushions of the scarlet too-soft couches with a slight frown, and waited patiently for the song to reach its grand conclusion. 

If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn that the furniture was actively trying to swallow him. He kept readjusting himself in an effort to remain upright, but it was a struggle. Still, he was the heir of a powerful criminal syndicate and not to be bested by cheap polyester and stuffing.

Once the song was done, and the white, swirling cursive on the small television provided to them for this activity disappeared from the screen, Hanzo was beset by the bright-eyed youths, all of whom had apparently been as eager to meet him as Genji had claimed them to be, though Celine Dion had, of course, taken precedence. 

“So, you’re Genji’s older brother,” the boy wearing loose pants and a Kinjaz t-shirt stated with a hint of mischief. “He’d told us a lot of about you.” He reached for a handshake. “I’m Hiroshi. And these dorks behind me,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the young woman with tanned skin and an abundance of pearl eyeshadow. He would say she was Genji’s type except Genji didn’t have a type so much as he had a species. As though sensing his thoughts, she cocked her head to the side with a grin and a wink, a gesture that allowed her long hair to cascade over her glittering top in bronze waves, “is Reiko.”

And the one standing beside her with a furrowed brow and tension in his shoulders was Daisuke. None of them volunteered their family names, which wasn’t too strange amongst the newer generations, so Hanzo didn’t think much of it, only offered his hand. He waited, arm raised, as Daisuke seemed to think it over, and didn’t miss the pleading look Genji shot his friend before he finally relented. “Like Hiroshi said,” the boy’s voice was surprisingly pleasant, “we’ve heard a lot about you. I can honestly say I didn’t actually think you were going to show up tonight.”

That certainly answered the question of what exactly the nature of Genji’s tellings had been. It would seem he wasn’t the sole occupant of the room putting his personal feelings aside for his sake.

Daisuke’s grip was firm when they shook, but not overly so, and Hanzo allowed himself a grim smile.

This was going to be a long night.

 

The screen blinked white, before a bubblegum pink title took up residence on its surface and Reiko let out a delighted squeal. Leaping over the table with surprising grace to plant herself in front of the lyrics, she crowed, “Leave this one to me, boys.”

“PON PON set it free,” she belted out, copying the cutesy dance moves to perfection, to the point of even sticking out her bum and giving it a light tap to match the beat, and while Genji snickered freely at the display, Daisuke and Hanzo shared similar expressions of pain. “C’mon, let the crazy show.” 

“Everyday is PON,” she threw her arms into the air, “Everytime is PON!” 

And just has soon as Hiroshi had dared to mutter that it probably couldn’t get any worse, the chorus began, “PON PON WAY WAY WAY PONPON WAY PON WAY PON PON WAY WAY PONPONPON WAY WAY PON WAY PON-“ They managed to suffer through its entirety but by the second chorus, nerves were frayed, ears were bleeding, and Hanzo had taken to passing the time by begging whatever deity that would listen for a meteor to crash through the roof. It was by its third repetition that Hiroshi voiced a desire to use the restroom, and then _accidentally_ caught his sneaker on the power plug. 

Though it must have been difficult to keep a straight face when confronted with the matching pouts of both Reiko and his brother, Hiroshi apologized profusely, and even diplomatically offered to give her another turn. But Reiko refused with a huff, her arms folded against her chest as she plopped down on the couch, accidentally jostling her partner-in-crime in the process.

After uttering a hushed sigh of relief, Hanzo glanced at Daisuke to see that his gaze had gone unexpectedly soft, as he regarded the casual banter between them with a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

Once the karaoke machine was restored, Genji insisted that he be given the next turn, since they had all so cruelly started without him. And for further prove that the universe itself would bend over backwards to aid him in his quest to be as annoying as was humanly possible at all opportunities, the randomly selected song was revealed to be none other than _Mr. Roboto_.

Instantly, his natural accent became oddly stilted, as though the ridiculously simple Japanese sprinkled through the English song was foreign to him, and he marched in place, arms pumping robotically, and his audience clapped along with the rhythm, having been carried away by his energy and the sheer force of his magnetic personality. 

The last, lingering note came fast, so fast it took them by surprise, but Genji poured his soul into it, and held it without pausing for breath or lessening in volume for an instant longer than the song’s own artist had, before pulling it to a quick and clean close. 

There was a whoop, a cheer, and then a hearty round of applause from all parties present. Grinning, Genji bowed to each of them, “Domo arigato.”

Then he tossed the microphone to Hanzo. 

Hanzo caught it reflexively, only to fumble it upon realizing exactly what it was he’d been tossed. He shot Genji a wounded look, but he only shrugged, entirely unbothered by the theatrics, while Hiroshi and Daisuke both appeared somewhat apologetic. Reiko, on the other hand, held absolutely no reservations about forcing him into the spotlight, as she pulled him to his feet and pushed him to the front, where he stood stock still for several agonizing seconds before his brain reluctantly acknowledged the reality of his situation.

Reiko was watching him expectantly, waiting for him to choose something with her chin propped on her hands. The others seemed more wary, but nonetheless supportive. 

At first, Hanzo considered Enka, something traditional, slow and crooning, but his nerves wouldn’t allow him to spend anymore than the absolute minimum amount of time centerstage, so anything less than a galloping pace was out of the question. 

He scrolled through the categories, only half-paying attention while his insides curled up and died under the scrutiny, before landing on K-Pop. He regarded it curiously, thinking back to the many lessons he’d received in the language and brief overview of the culture. After hitting select, and ignoring the questioning glances that were no doubt being exchanged behind him, he thumbed the remote to land on a song entitled, HERO. 

And as luck would have it, it actually wasn't entirely unknown to him. 

Okay, maybe his knowledge was relegated to watching the moves once or twice when looking over his brother’s shoulder, but he was confident that he could imitate them to a passable degree. The booth was cramped, and it didn’t always feel like there was enough air flowing through the vents to sustain them, but whether it was a burst of confidence or oxygen-deprivation, Hanzo was suddenly certain he could pull this off. 

The introduction consisted of the band announcing its name with no small amount of flare, and then Hanzo, in a perfect American accent, said, “Ya’ll know what it is, man.” And Genji leaned so far forward he almost fell out of his seat. A short, amused laugh bubbled out of him, and then he spread his arms out wide, growling the lyrics, “Monsta. Monsta,” before snapping along to the beat. He stepped forward, a boyish grin spreading up his cheeks when the song really hit its stride. “Okay, man,” he glanced back, satisfied by the matching expressions of shock he witnessed, “let’s go.” 

It wasn’t often that he got to display his flawless Korean, and so he took great joy in doing so as he dragged his feet across the floor to give the impression of sliding, arced his torso in sensual waves, and even leaned back to occasionally flash his well-sculpted abs. 

His comfort level rose with each new verse, as the Korean flowed effortlessly and the choreography proved easier to imitate than he’d anticipated, until he was striding around the room, serenading Genji’s friends in turns.

“I can be your hero. I can be your man,” he sang directly to Reiko, causing her to swoon dramatically on his brother. It was the first time she’d taken her eyes off him since he’d lifted his shirt. An unusual spike of tension prompted Hanzo to cross to the other side of the room. And he grinned at the shade of rose petal pink that dusted Daisuke's cheeks when he did, while Hiroshi sagged heavily against his companion, laughing so hard into the hands clapped over his mouth that he'd lost the ability to remain upright.

The lyrics came faster as the song segued into its rap portion. Hanzo was dimly aware of Genji cheering in the background while he focused on keeping up, then slowed back down again, allowing him to return to jumping and making odd movements with his hands. 

When the song finally ended, he was breathing harshly, with a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin. Daisuke seemed grudgingly impressed, while Hiroshi just shook his head with a wordless smile. 

But then, “Genji?” Although she’d been sitting throughout the duration of Hanzo’s performance, Reiko’s cheeks maintained a healthy flush. 

Genji blinked. “Yeah?”

“I think I just fell a little bit in love.”

“Me too,” Hiroshi chimed in, his smile having morphed into a full out grin, and Hanzo felt his face heat all the way to the roots of his hair. The congratulations, including a heartfelt slap on the back from Daisuke, gave him a warm, heady feeling, the likes of which he’d never experienced before, but none so much as his brother’s, who spent the rest of the night unashamedly showing off how proud he was of his cool older brother. 

But it all burst, like a fragile soap bubble, when Hanzo reported his observations to their father later that night – that Genji's companions had seemed like little more than average teenagers, though it had been a bit odd that none had introduced themselves by their family name - only to be bluntly informed that Reiko, Daisuke, and Hiroshi had each been identified as the children of rival gangs and crime syndicates. 

It was then that Hanzo realized it had all been nothing but a pretty dream. He had been a fool to pretend otherwise. He rebuffed every attempt Genji made to invite him out again with unconcealed scorn, answered his pleas, “They miss you, Hanzo. You don't know how often they ask about you, “ with a curled lip and a sneered, “They already have one Shimada in their possession. What need have they of another?”

Eventually, their father called them to a meeting, and they sat on the ground together in the darkened room where he resided in a ceremonial chair of plated gold, ornate with the wrathful dragons carved into its armrests. “Genji, it has come to my attention, that your friends are the scion of our rivals,” Hanzo felt his brother’s accusing gaze flick to him, “but you already know this, do you not?”

Ducking his head, Genji swallowed. “I did not judge their lineage to be of any importance.”

Thinking back to Reiko’s unabashed laughter, to Hiroshi’s calm demeanor, and Daisuke’s protective streak, Hanzo found himself agreeing. But their father’s word was law. If Genji did not cut his ties with them now, there was no telling what tragedy might befall them. 

When at last he was dismissed, Genji strode out the doors with tension thrumming through him, only the barest hint of iridescence in his eyes betraying the storm brewing within. 

For a time, Hanzo remained seated, silent, thinking. “If we continue to stifle him like this,” he began softly, “he will only continue to rebel. ” It was dangerous to speak out like this. The elders had ears everywhere, and speaking against the will of the kumicho carried heavy consequences, even for his sons, but he had to know how their father, who so obviously favored Genji, could simultaneously drive him away.

And for the first time in his life, Hanzo witnessed the years of accumulated stress and grief age him a decade, erasing the lord, erasing the dragon, and leaving just the man, who regarded Hanzo as something very close to an equal when he said, “A cage with gilded bars is still a cage. It is vital that he understands that even the Shimada, with all their influence and power, are far from free.” 

He didn’t say anything more after that, and eventually, Hanzo left, though he did so with more questions than before, only to be shoved roughly against the wall once he passed the threshold. Instead of fighting back, Hanzo forced himself to relax. He knew exactly who his assailant was, had even anticipated the assault.

“I never should have invited you,” Genji snarled, baring his teeth with unshed tears in his eyes. “Stay in this prison and rot, Hanzo, if that is your wish, but I will _not_ join you in this slow death.”

He broke off, releasing Hanzo as though he wasn’t even worth hurting, then stalked into the shadows with his fists curled at his sides and wisps of ethereal green smoke trailing in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Heart Will Go On - I currently live in China and this is, to my knowledge, still one of the most requested karaoke songs in Asia. 
> 
> PONPONPON - A special thanks to Amanda Lee for translating this adorably perky song. 
> 
> Mr. Roboto - While this song was made famous by the Styx, the dance moves and general attitude for Genji were inspired by Jimmy Fallon. 
> 
> HERO - Since Hanzo was raised as heir, it's likely that he's fluent in several languages, but Genji never listened when told that watching K-Pop bands like Monsta X on the internet didn't actually count as studying.


	23. The Rift - part 3 (end)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you just mashing buttons?"

The empty corridors of the Shatterdome stretched endlessly in front of Gerard as he wandered without thought or intention, content to merely observe the expansive base of Jaeger operations without a brooding thundercloud making snide comments that appeared among his own thoughts without warning or consent. It wasn’t that he faulted the Shimada for being bitter – Gerard wasn’t exactly thrilled about their predicament, either – but even though their deaths were still raw, open wounds, Gerard was able to think of his objectively, while Genji split the sky with his rage. 

Walking at his side was like standing shoulder to shoulder with a tornado, or stepping through a candle factory with sticks of dynamite held aloft in each hand. 

Still, though Gerard could no longer hear his thoughts, the Shimada’s presence yet resided within him, buzzing and eternally restless. 

Resting a cool, metallic palm against his temple, Gerard slumped against the safety railing, allowing it to prop him up (and keep him from plummeting to the ground several stories below) so that he could gaze at the arced ceiling above them all. Staring at that ceiling, so high and untouchable, he couldn’t help but think of a snow globe, like they were trapped in a world outside of time, and tomorrow would never come. 

He wasn’t sure if the thought soothed or terrified him. 

There had to be some way to get answers for why the Jaeger Program had decided to play God with their lives – deaths? - like this. As well as a one heck of a good reason for Reyes to willingly go along with it. 

From what Gerard could recall of their time together in Overwatch, Gabe was the kind of guy who’d rather burn the whole building down than see it rot. It wasn’t in his nature to be tolerant of corruption, which was especially ironic considering he specialized in clandestine operations that didn’t always play nice with the law. 

Maybe he’d learned to bend over the years, out of a desperate need to keep the only program that had shown any success at combating the kaiju threat alive. 

Kaiju threat. Omnic threat.

The words had changed, but the song was same. Gerard had devoted his life to defending the defenseless, protecting the innocent, and all that jazz. He’d spent more time putting his neck on the line during the Omnic Crisis than with his beautiful young wife, and where had that gotten him? 

Murdered in his sleep by the woman he loved. 

How much more could Reyes expect him to give? There was nothing left, not even a heartbeat.

And yet he’d been thrust into another war, against another enemy that had somehow supplanted the first. Finding out that the key to convincing humans and omnics to put aside their differences and cooperate was the threat of extinction from what was essentially a bigger fish… It really made a guy wonder why he’d even bothered to sacrifice so much to fend off the omnics in the first place, when he should’ve just tossed a giant lizard at them and called it a day.

Damn it. The Shimada kid’s eternal pessimism was catching. 

He tilted his head back to see the high arced ceiling above him, idly following the dust motes that floating in streams of moonlight sneaking in through cracks and the soft illumination of electric lanterns. 

This wasn’t the time to fall apart. Genji was a matchstrike away from detonation, and if his brief glimpse at the Jaegers was anything to go by, they were about to be shoved into a glorified nuclear bomb. If one of them didn’t keep their heads on straight through this nightmare, thousands of people would die. 

_Amelie_ would die.

He wasn’t even aware of the railing’s low groan as it bent and warped beneath his fingertips until a painfully familiar voice asked, “Like what you see?” 

His grip went slack and he jumped, striking metal against metal with a jarring clang when his elbows slammed against the bar. Instead of the stream of expletives running through his mind, a high beeping sound denoted his surprise. When he’d finally gotten himself under control, however, he looked up to see Amelie staring at him with amusement stirring in her dark eyes, a hand placed delicately over her mouth to conceal the laughter threatening to spill past her lips. “Forgive me, _mon cher_ ,” she looked him over to ensure he wasn’t damaged, her gaze lingering a moment too long on the dents he’d left in the railing before she continued, “I did not intend to startle you.” Venturing to step closer, an action which Gerard felt so conflicted about he was positive he was going to fry his circuits, she asked with a trace of what sounded uncomfortably like concern, “What are you doing out so late?”

Without prompting, she moved to join him, and peered over the balcony to see the mess hall below, usually bustling with noise and people, now virtually empty with the exception of a few stragglers. She’d let her violet-toned hair out of its ponytail so that it gracefully framed the contours of her shoulder blades and long, slender neck. A stray lock fell over her ear when she leaned forward to rest her folded hands on the bar, so close he could reach out and touch, and he forced himself to swallow the urge to brush it back. While her proximity made it extremely difficult for Gerard to string two coherent thoughts together, he managed to keep enough of his wits about him to listen when she softly murmured with a somewhat unfocused gaze that was at once forlorn and nostalgic, “I always like to come here at this time of night, when it’s quiet like this.”

When an updraft from the levels swept up her bangs, eliciting a subtle quirk at the corners of her lips, it was like they were standing on the observatory at the top of the Eiffel tower again. Back then, she'd been so light and free and weightless he’d felt a sudden impulse to place a hand on her shoulder, plagued as he was by the sudden, irrational urge that she’d fly away if he didn’t. And she’d glanced back at him then, brow arced in a silent question as a healthy flush suffused her cheeks, and he’d quickly snatched his hand away – it was such a silly thought, after all – and settled back to follow her lead while she darted from telescope to telescope. At the top of the world, it was just them, the stars, and the security guard he’d bribed to let them in after hours, standing with his arms folded over his chest like a grump at the exit. 

There were frown lines curving around the corners of her mouth that hadn’t been there before, and a deep furrow over the bridge of her nose that spoke of worries he couldn’t even begin to imagine, but underneath it all beat the heart of the woman he’d once planned to share the world with. 

Resenting her for what she did to him, for everything she’d taken – his life, his body, his future - would have been the more natural reaction, but no matter how hard he searched within himself, he couldn’t find a scrap of blame to spare. 

A chainsaw revving below them reminded Gerard that they weren’t standing at the top of the world, anymore. Stars didn’t glitter in the sky above, and Amelie didn’t need his hand to keep her grounded. Her beautiful wings had been clipped long ago.

Eventually, she noticed him staring, and then gestured offhandedly to their surroundings, “We think this place was a factory once,” she started awkwardly, resulting in an unholy cross between showing the new guy around and tour guide, “repurposed to house the Jaegers and _us_ ,” her voice dropped in register, venom dripping from each syllable, “the last hope of humanity.”

When she raised her head slightly to regard him, however, focusing on the blank faceplate and shallow divets that could be called eyes in the same way that a fluffy cloud could be called a rabbit, there was a silent apology in her expression. 

For a moment, time seemed to slow. He wondered if she couldn’t see something in him, something familiar, some part of the man he’d once been when his arms were flesh and she fit perfectly in them. Then with a heavy, miserable sigh, she broke the connection. “I suppose omnics don’t really need sleep, do they? Still,” and her gaze slid off him, shoulders edging forward as though to create a barrier between them, “I’m surprised Reyes is being so lenient with your care.”

Unable to flinch, Gerard felt his entire body jerk at the abrupt reminder of what had transpired that morning, of what she must have thought of him after Genji had nearly throttled her copilot. From her perspective, they were tools at best, but unpredictable and prone to unprovoked bouts of rage. 

He made a mental note to thank the kid for that, later. 

Alarmed, her eyes widened a fraction at the oddly visceral reaction. Confusion clouded her features, only to be quickly consumed by shame when she realized how callous her words must have sounded to the poor omnic. “It is only that you are still unfamiliar with your surroundings,” she amended quickly. “It seems unwise to allow you to wander unattended when you could so easily lose your way.”

Although he’d wanted to respond without giving too much away – a feat which should have been ridiculously easy given his utter lack of any discernible facial features– Gerard’s attempt at a nonchalant shrug came across a tad jerky. To be honest, he hadn’t wanted to look a gift horse in the mouth when Reyes had suggested they take a walk, and so he hadn’t questioned it, but as for whether he needed to sleep…

Beyond learning how to kill omnics, he’d never had much of a curiosity for their operational procedures, nor had he possessed any interest whatsoever in keeping them functional. Privately, he had to admit that he was seriously coming to regret that rather blasé attitude. 

A light pressure on his chestplate pulled him from his thoughts, and he lifted his head to see her staring curiously at him, a question in the tilt of her head and upward quirk of her brow, “You’ve been so silent this entire time… Is it that you simply do not wish to speak to me?” Gerard shook his head so fast he was afraid for half a second that a screw had come loose. “You poor creature,” she told him with genuine pity, a single nail brushed over the empty space on his neck column where his vocal synthesizer should have been installed. And he’d thought it’d been a struggle not to shrink away from her touch before, but now he was consciously ordering every mechanical inch of his body not to lean into it. “Could they not even be bothered to finish you?”

And suddenly the space they inhabited was quiet, so quiet. The sounds of construction faded to a low hum in the background, the shuffle of sneakers and clang of tools becoming muffled, as though dampened by a veil, and Gerard couldn’t look away from the pain etched permanently into every line and curve and dip of her body, the grief that never quite fled, not even on those rare occasions when her lips remembered how to smile.

Then she pulled back, and with what was likely an attempt at lightening the mood, said, “Well, don’t dwell on it too much. Speaking is an ability most often granted to those who least deserve it.”

After that, she lapsed into a thoughtful silence that lasted long enough for him to begin to wonder if he wasn’t intruding, but she never asked him to leave, and the truth was that even though every second she looked at him without an inkling of recognition was agony of the highest degree… he wasn’t ready to leave her side. 

While he watched, something inscrutable flitted through her features, and soon he was moving, or rather, being moved. “Come on,” she called, giving him a tug that quickly turned into her dragging him through the halls while he struggled not to fall flat on his face, “I’ve got an idea.”

Fluorescent lights and unconcealed piping flew by with her in the lead, and he gave into her pull like the moon giving into gravity. The dust motes blurred, becoming bright streaks of gold as his systems struggled to keep up with the speed of the visual input they were receiving. It made the whole thing feel surreal, like he could wake up in their home at any second and see her sleeping next to him.

But this wasn’t a dream, and he wasn’t the type to run away from reality. Something told him that if he could feel her touch, her hands would be colder than ice, but what difference did that make to an omnic? He couldn’t feel anything, let alone the warmth of his wife. However, where his sensory faculties failed to provide, his memories were only too happy to fill in the gaps. 

For a moment, they were running through the streets of Paris, flush-faced and intoxicated on the night and the significant amount of good wine they’d had with dinner. It was their first date, maybe their second because he distinctly recalled her taking some time to warm up to him, and her dress was long and closefitting, black with sequins that glittered like starlight. 

She’d looked at him like he was the only man in the world that mattered, made him feel like he could take on Talon with a toothpick, and said – “We’re here. You can let go of my hand now.” 

…No, he’s pretty sure that’s _not_ what she said. 

He glanced at his surroundings, taking stock of the rows of whirring computers on stand-by and the floor-to-ceiling viewing window that substituted for the entirety of the circular room’s back wall. And if the sheer amount of equipment wasn’t a dead-giveaway for the room’s purpose, then the unhindered view of the Jaeger cockpits would have made it excruciatingly obvious that Amelie had led them into the central hub of the Jaeger program - its brain, so to speak. 

This was where Reyes issued orders, where kaiju attacks were detected, where dozens of men and women did everything they could to keep their pilots alive. 

Amelie regarded him with an odd look, probably wondering how an omnic that was less than a week past its initial activation could get so lost in its thoughts, and he snatched his hand away like her touch was a magnet of opposite polarity. Not repulsed, but repelled. 

Flexing her now free fingers, she stared for a moment longer, making him sweat internally, before she finally set about achieving whatever task it was she’d set out to accomplish. He watched her sift through the drawers of a large and impressive desk towards the front, which happened to have an intimidating amount of paperwork stacked on its surface. It didn’t take long before she was holding a blank writing pad and a pen with a soft noise of triumph. 

Then she held it out and he took them without question. It was while he was thinking of what to write that she noticed the soft green glow of his fellow omnic talking to her partner on the balcony outside. Her expression hardened briefly, before becoming clouding with confusion when it became obvious that Hanzo’s mechanical copilot wasn’t behaving in a way that was openly hostile, and Gerard realized, regretfully, that his time with his beautiful wife was up. 

With an apology in her tone, though he could tell her thoughts were already moving past him, she asked, “Do you think you will be alright getting back to your quarters on your own?”

That was how he came to use the pen and paper to communicate, and the first thing he wrote down was a half-truth, _Oui_.

Yes, he could find his way back to the basement without her. And, no, he wouldn’t be alright. 

But because she couldn’t read his thoughts, and it was only logical that a copilot made just for her would be programmed with knowledge of her native language, she offered him a small but sincerely grateful smile, and then she brushed past him, leaving him standing in the dark with a writing pad pressed against his chestplate and a pen held tightly in his grip.

 

_Hisssss._

Genji swiveled his head at the slow release of pent up air coming from the omnic hanging beside him. They were back in the basement now, which shouldn’t have been a surprise since there wasn’t anywhere else for them to go, but Reyes had still looked pleased to see them when they’d ambled in at roughly the same time. And Gerard had been sighing ever since. 

Annoyed by the interruption when his own thoughts were swirling like brackish storm waters, Genji tiredly snapped, _And what are you so happy about?_

The other omnic glanced down at the writing pad and pen it’d managed to hold onto, since Reyes didn’t have the heart to confiscate the objects when they’d already had so much taken from them, and would undoubtedly lose more. So he’d pretended not to see it, having resolved to take the heat if it came up. The way he saw it – treating the last hope of humanity like slaves wasn’t the best idea when it came to assuring their cooperation. If they weren’t at least thrown a bone every now and then, or even treated with a shred of human decency, then what incentive did they have for risking their second lives to save a species they technically weren't even a part of?

Clutching the writing pad closer until it began to wrinkle, Gerard replied, _I ran into Amelie. She gave me this._

After a short pause, Genji gave a curt nod. _Excellent._ A sardonic edge coated the word like spikes on a mace. _Did you use it to tell her you’re her dead husband? How did that go?_

 _You know what, Shimada?_ He felt the stirrings of a reply form in his head but bulldozed over it, _Screw you and the lying sycophant that convinced you you’re funny._

It was expected to be another few hours before the commander came in to check on them, giving them plenty of time to grate on each other’s nerves, but then the empty, silent room came alive with flashing lights and a blaring siren that could wake the dead and every fish in the sea, besides. 

Shortly afterwards, the sole entrance to the basement was flung open, and Reyes came marching in, looking calm and composed in a navy blue suit, but only in the most superficial of senses, as the bruises under his eyes and sweat beading on his forehead told a very different story. 

He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, but he had a job to do, and if there was one thing Gabriel Reyes could be counted on to do, it was his job. “I didn’t want to have to rush you like this,” he disguised a deep, steadying breath as a short pause to gather his thoughts, “but we’re looking at a double, maybe even a triple breach of the Rift, and that means I need all hands on deck.” Gradually, his hard expression eased, providing them with a glimpse of the affable, spirited young soldier buried beneath the stress and grit, “I hope you’ve been bonding with your pilots,” there was a smirk carving its way through the scarring he wore like a badge, “because this is going to be your first true test in the field.” And then sadly, solemnly, he finished, “Don’t let us down.”

The pipes restraining the omnics released with a expulsion of steam that issued from their mechanical limbs, but they were ready this time and they landed on their feet, tense and ready to move. 

Gerard moved to follow Reyes out the door, falling back into old habits where following his lead felt natural and right, back when the monsters were people, not lizards the size of mountains, but he turned back when he noticed Genji wasn’t next to him, anymore. Actually, he hadn’t moved an inch, and was standing still at the exact spot where the tubes had dropped him, both of his fists clenched so tightly the metal groaned at his sides. From one fist, a single white petal could be seen peeking out from between his fingers, but before Gerard could ask him about it, he lurched forward, taking one overly large step before his strides fell into a natural rhythm and Gerard quickly found himself being left behind. 

When Gerard caught up with him, he asked, _You want to tell me what that was about?_ But the Shimada kid acted like he couldn’t hear him. It would have even been believable, considering that the hallways and ground floor were swarming with staff sprinting left and right,each trying to get into position for the coming confrontation, shouted orders, and alarms that no one had gotten around to silencing yet… except for the small matter of their _psychic_ link.

As soon as they were out in the hall, the blurred forms of faceless men and women in tan, navy, and orange jumpsuits flew by, pushing past them, though they parted for their Marshall, keeping a respectful distance despite their hurry. While they shoved their way through the crowd, Reyes debriefed them on the status of the other pilots. “ _American Anubis_ and _Frostbite_ are being deployed as we speak. We’re sending _Izanami_ in as back-up in case things get out of control. Lacroix and Shimada are waiting for you in the holding area. They’re to have a pivotal role to play in this mission, but there’s no time to debrief you, so I’m just going to have to ask you to trust-“

Before he could finish, Gerard surged past Genji, pivoting on his heel mid-stride to shove a sharp metal elbow against the Marshall’s throat until he had him pinned against the wall, and the crowd froze, their attention glued to the scene as it played out. Static issued from Gerard’s mouthless faceplate in the form of a low, furious growl.

_I may not be an expert on omnics, but I do know I’m a hell of a lot stronger than you right now, Reyes. Either you start giving us some answers or you’re on your own._

Grabbing the thin, slender limb pressing against his windpipe, Reyes managed, “Damn it, Ger.” He didn’t sound angry, just tired and desperate. “We don’t have time for this.” His next words were cut off by a choked gasp when Gerard steadily leaned in to increase the pressure.

_Make time._

Arcing a brow at the tone and uncharacteristically aggressive body language, Reyes inclined his head slightly, as though listening, then huffed into his comm after Gerard had loosened his hold enough for him to respond to whoever was on the other end with a grunted, “Stand down. I have it handled.” 

Wary of whatever unseen threat had been called off, Gerard released him, allowing Reyes to clear his throat and adjust his suit with a scowl. After he’d finished composing himself, the Marshall nodded at the gathered crowd, wordlessly letting them know that he was perfectly fine and everything was under control, before he guided the omnics in the direction of the holding area, and the instant he found a space in the corridor where there didn’t seem to be a million ears hanging onto his every word, he stopped. Only then, when they were as alone as they were ever going to get, did he lower his guard, allowing traces of the grief he always held at bay to seep into his weathered features when he softly confessed what only a few other souls on the base knew, including the pilots.

“It’s a suicide mission.”

Gerard stumbled back a step, feeling as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet. After regarding them both for a long moment, Reyes dragged a calloused palm over his face. “Look, they left you to die once. And you can do the same, if that’s what you really want. No one will blame you for it. Heck, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who cares. But you care, don’t you? You’ll have to live with it. If you ask me, it’s not what you’re made of or where you’re from that defines you, but when life throws a crucible at you and you have to make a choice, that’s when you find out who you really are.”

Then he set off at a brisk pace to meet his pilots, without once looking over his shoulder to see if they followed.

 

Arms folded over his chest, one foot tapping out a steady rhythm, Hanzo waited outside the _Izanami_ with Amelie for their omnic copilots to report for duty. Like them, McCree and Fareeha were suited up to engage. Though they were ostensibly on stand-by, it was common knowledge that Reyes would do everything in his power to keep them out of the fight. This well-known fact didn’t seem to faze the Shatterdome’s youngest pilot, however, as Fareeha was practically giddy at the prospect of joining her mother in battle. Whenever she ceased clambering over the limbs of their Jaeger to plant her feet on the ground, it seemed as though it was all McCree could do to keep her from vibrating right off into space. 

For the moment, she was hanging by her legs off the shoulder while McCree happily conversed with Lena and Emily. Because of the importance of this most recent encounter with the kaiju, Winston had been relegated to the control room, which meant they wouldn’t be participating in the mission, but that didn’t keep them from coming to keep their fellow pilots company while they waited to be deployed.

Speaking of deployment, Hanzo tilted his head as his helmet was patched into the comm channel, where he could hear Morrison report to base, _No sign of them yet._

 _Keep your eyes peeled, Morrison._ Reyes immediately barked in response. _Don’t let your guard down for a second. I'm not accepting any casualties today._

Allowing himself to be distracted by the conversation taking place ahead of him, Hanzo thought briefly of how the two had been suspiciously absent during yesterday’s lunch, though he had a pretty good inkling as to the nature of activities they'd been otherwise engaged in, which was only confirmed by the flush of pink that stained Emily’s cheeks when McCree said innocently, “Missed you both at lunch, yesterday. So, what were you up to?”

His eyes widened comically at the sudden color dancing over her features, understanding dawning like the start of a new day. Snickering at his reaction, Lena playfully nudged her girlfriend, “We were just catching up, right, luv?”

When Emily half-heartedly batted her away, Lena put on a mask of hurt, pouting, “Oh, don’t be like that, Em.” Then she flung her arms around her and accosted her with kissy faces until Emily finally gave in, letting Lena cling to her while she dissolved into soft gasps of laughter that quickly had her wiping tears from her eyes.

Combing back his bangs with his fingers, McCree groaned. “Ugh. Fareeha don’t come down here,” he called up to the monkey in the form of a human child. “Save yourself. It's too late for me.”

Even as high up as she was, it was easy to tell she was rolling her eyes. 

Lena stuck her tongue out at him. 

It was such a peaceful and familiar scene that it seemed out of place at the end of the world, yet Hanzo found it oddly comfortable, a visible and tangible reminder of what they were putting everything on the line for.

A soft, gossamer touch on his wrist guided his attention away from the scene, and he glanced down at the pair of lavender fingers lightly perched on his wrist. Amelie didn’t acknowledge it directly at first, so he didn’t say anything, though there was a distance in her gaze as she continued to watch the affectionate back-and-forth play out that worried him. Then her gripped tightened, becoming strong and unyielding to match the ferocity in her voice when she whispered, “We protect them.”

Almost unbidden, Hanzo smiled. “Until the end.” 

For an instant, her yellow eyes searched his own, and he allowed it, not turning his head in the slightest until she visibly relaxed, whatever she’d been looking for having been found, as he’d known it would be. 

A commotion from their fellow pilots alerted them to the approach of Marshall Reyes, who looked harried, despite his best efforts to appear composed. It was understandable, given that two of the pilots sent out to search for the invading kaiju were his best friends, but one had to wonder if the omnics trailing at his sides, one with a notebook clutched in its hand, didn’t have something to do with it. 

Thrilled to see the omnics again, Lena waved excitedly. Hanzo, however, felt very differently about their presence. 

He folded his arms over his chest with a huff, “Do we really need to bring them? They haven’t trained with us once, and the midst of battle isn’t the place for them to learn.” 

Predictably, Reyes scowled, jabbing a thumb at the pair. “I didn’t drag their shiny rears here so you could leave them here to rust, Shimada.”

The plain omnic, having listened to the exchange intently, scribbled out a single word on its notebook, raised it for the _Izanami_ pilots to read – _Allonsy_ – and then tucked it under an arm so that it could begin to climb the scaffolding that led to the cockpit. Amelie turned to watch it climb, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

Exasperated by the machine’s foolishness, Hanzo demanded, “What purpose could their presence possibly serve at this juncture?”

The second omnic, whom Hanzo recalled speaking with late the previous night, straightened as though offended, then brushed past him to pointedly join the first in climbing the scaffolding and entering the cockpit. There was something achingly familiar about its mannerisms, but Hanzo didn’t allow himself to dwell on it for too long, since it was probably meaningless, a coincidence and nothing more, that had led him to momentarily see another in the omnic’s place. 

Without skipping a beat, the Marshall replied, “They’re insurance.”

Amelie’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with shock at the bluntness with which the Marshall admitted to their expendability. Hanzo’s answering chuckle was mirthless, empty and bitter, “Trying to replace us already?”

But instead of rising to the challenge, the expression carved on the Marshall’s scarred face was one of pity. He sighed. “You can twist my words all you want, Shimada, but despite your best efforts, I actually do like you.” Surprisingly, Amelie smirked at the comment. Hanzo shot her an accusing look, to which she only shrugged. After observing the exchange, Reyes clapped a hand on both their shoulders, “Come back from this alive. Both of you.”

Curving a single perfect brow, Amelie said, “Impossible orders don’t suit you, Marshall.” 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to show us a miracle.” After leaving them with those parting words, Reyes stalked over to where McCree was definitely-not-watching with a stern set to his shoulders, stopped within arm’s reach of the increasingly worried and confused cowboy, then promptly threw his arm’s around him, pulling McCree into an embrace he couldn’t have broken out of if he tried. 

He didn’t try.

After a second of stunned inaction, Jesse cautiously rested his hands on the man’s broad back to return the hug. 

Meanwhile, seeing what was happening below, Fareeha clambered down from her perch to land soundlessly on the ground, whereupon Reyes briefly released Jesse to pull her in, too. It lasted as long as it could, given the circumstances, or maybe even a little longer, before Reyes released them, held them both at arm’s length so he could look at them long and hard, and then ruffled his hands through their hair, causing them to pout while they went about fixing the mess he’d made. 

Reyes stepped back, looking vaguely uncomfortable with the amount of affection he’d just shown but also entirely unrepentant. With a goofy grin that perfectly mirrored that of the girl standing beside him, McCree tugged on the brim of his hat, righting it, “Always knew you were a big ol’ softie, hoss.”

Unexpectedly, the Marshall cracked a toothy smile, and reached forward to flick him lightly on the forehead, “Keep it up and you’ll be eating that hat.”

Fareeha and Lena snickered at McCree’s expense while Emily tried to spare him some dignity by clapping a hand over her mouth, but the laughter shining in her bright brown eyes gave her away. 

It all came to an abrupt end when the comm sparked to life with an unearthly howl. 

_Reyes?_ The name, strained with forced calm, was almost drowned out by the shriek of claws tearing through metal. _I think we found Jaggerhead._

And for the briefest part of a second, despair flooded through the Marshall’s features, saturated every inch of him like a man drowning, but it was gone before the others could react, replaced by grim determination. Spitting a curse, he raised his head to shout at the _Izanami_ pilots, “Shimada, Lacroix, get in your Jaeger. I want you out there now!”

Amelie reacted first, shoving her black helmet on her head before turning to dart to the elevator that would bring them to the cockpit, while Hanzo followed, sticking close to her until they’d crossed the bridge into the holding area, where their spines were fitted with the spinal graft that would link their neural patterns to the machine. They split into left and right hemisphere; Amelie taking the stand in front of the plain omnic that was already sporting cords at the base of its head and back to connect it to the Jaeger, and Hanzo taking the right.

There was an unanimous, yet unspoken decision that _Izanagi_ would be making an appearance during the battle, as Hanzo’s strength and ferocity were vital in close combat, while Amelie’s reflexes and finesse were better suited to supporting brawler-type Jaegers that could distract the kaiju while she sniped from afar, dealing heavy damage with a rifle that tore through flesh and fat and bone with the ease of knocking down a cobweb. If they were going to successfully cancel the apocalypse, then the pair of them would need to play to all of their strengths, and while switching dominance during combat could be difficult, the crux of it was that it required not only focus, but complete trust in the abilities of their partner. 

Luckily, they had that in spades. 

Amelie placed her hands on the disks that appeared beneath her palms, felt the connection between her and _Izanami_ transform from its usual background hum, like waves crashing on a distant shore, to a swell of sensations as her senses became compounded by that of Hanzo and the Jaeger’s.

There were pedals beneath her feet, but also concrete, hard and unyielding. Her arms were slim and compactly muscled, but strong and large enough to lift a cruise liner and wield it like a club. 

And there was the sudden disorienting impression of having been made whole again, of moving with legs that were her own. She was herself, but also so much more.

She glanced at her partner to see him looking oddly pensive as he studied the sections of his armor where his prosthetics were located, and mentally brushed against his consciousness. It felt oddly intimate to do so when there were two distinct and alien presences within their neutral link, but the omnics added nothing, just as Reyes had said they would, and she had more important things to worry about than her pride. 

Hanzo twisted to face her, his dark eyes widening marginally at the contact, before his lips twitched into one of his rare, honest smiles. At the same time, his consciousness asserted itself, and the overwhelming flood of sensory feedback instantly became more manageable.

With audible humor in her voice, Amelie noted, “And I thought I was taking point.”

“You looked like you could use some assistance.”

Behind them, the omnics clicked and whirred, beeping occasionally, though she was pleased to see that her omnic had brought the notebook she’d given him into the cockpit. 

Hydraulics clanked and hissed as the head was secured to _Izanami_ ’s main body and then Winston was on the comm. _Uplink confirmed. Intiating neural handshake in 15, 14-_

Hanzo looked over his shoulder to catch the omnic with the vivid green visor watching him. It tilted its head curiously when it caught him staring, a gesture that tickled uncomfortably at memory. “Do you think they will see?”

Though not unsympathetic, as neither of their pasts were a cause for pride, Amelie could only shake her head. “Whatever the case, we will find out soon enough.”

_8,7,6_

And _Izanami_ was moving, rolling out on conveyor belt to deposit them into the sea revealed when the hanger doors opened. A storm raged over the churning waters, dark and black. In the distance, they could see lights moving and twisting, and adjusted their coordinates to the position. _Frostbite_ was holding Jaggerhead off for the time being by freezing the waters around the beast in a bid to slow its movements and lower its core body temperature, but the second confirmed kaiju was still nowhere to be seen, which was discouraging to say the least. The only thing more terrifying than a kaiju you could see was a kaiju you couldn’t.

There was a disorienting lack of gravity for a split second, and then they were falling, before landing on the ocean floor with a jarring force that sent pain rocketing through Hanzo’s phantom limbs, and he hissed, biting back a cry. 

The omnic behind him also made a sound, though Hanzo couldn’t fathom why. Omnics, as far as he knew, couldn’t feel pain.

The countdown paused, replaced by Winston’s concerned tones, _Everything okay, Shimada?_

Hanzo grunted. They didn’t have time for this. “I’ve come too far to be consumed by my past now.” He sensed the scientist’s reluctant acceptance before-

_3,2,1_

Amelie closed her eyes. 

 

_She’s seven years old at her first dance recital, and she’s in love. Dancing is better than anything she’s ever known, better than stuffed bears, better than toys, better than pretty dresses and sweets. And every time she effortlessly twirls and pirouettes, she looks into the audience to see the warm glow of her mother’s proud and smiling face. At the end of her performance, she rushes straight into her mother’s arms, where she’s loved and safe, and marvels at the wetness in her mother’s brown eyes when she holds her close and whispers, “Je t’aime, mon petite Amelie.”_

 

_She’s been bedridden for weeks. The doctors say she won’t last much longer, but Hanzo blocks them out because they don’t know his mother the way he does. She’d never leave him and Genji behind._

 

_He says he’s an Overwatch agent like that’s supposed to impress her, and maybe it does, if only a little. More impressive by far is that he’s more than a match for her verbal wit, and they spar like fencers whenever they run into each other at parties, until one day she noticed how he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and it lit a fire inside her that burned light and happy and giddy through her veins. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before, like being alive for the first time, and suddenly, ballet was no longer the sole love of her life, because that role had been claimed by a man with bite on his tongue, mischief in his smile, and a hand that fit perfectly in hers._

 

_His sandaled feet planted firmly on the tile outside the noodle shop, Genji curled around his ramen protectively, hunched over the bowl like a starving dog. And Hanzo rolled his eyes, not bothering to speak in English when there were no tutors to reprimand him for not doing so when he said, “No one’s going to steal your food, Genji. Stop being ridiculous.” Just as Genji raised an accusing brow at him and his suspicious lack of ramen, his order was completed and handed to him over the counter._

_Genji’s eyes went wide, “You’re going to eat with me?”_

_Settling comfortably against his little brother’s back, Hanzo teased, “That was the plan, but you are so slow I wonder if I will not be finished before you take your first bite.”_

_Heedless of Hanzo chuckling under his breath as he watched, Genji promptly stuffed his face full with noodles._

 

They come out of it like they’re breaking the surface, their neural handshake strong, maybe stronger than it’s ever been. But the complete absence of sound coming from the omnics worried the pilots, who reached out tentatively to them, prodding for a response, except the space in the Drift they inhabited felt empty and cold, so barren of thought or emotion that the pilots instinctively pulled back. 

Well, they’d worry about that later, if later ever came. 

_Frostbite_ was firing concentrated blasts of nitrogen at the kaiju’s limbs, and had managed to successfully freeze the creature’s arm, affording Morrison and Amari to land a hit on the beast that shattered the appendage into chunks. 

Lightning split the sky with jagged lines of bluish-white, which was just as well. Lightning didn’t belong to the sky or the Gods, it belonged to them. 

“Morrison,” Hanzo growled into the comm, “Get behind the kaiju and hold it steady.” 

The Jaeger in the distance shifted immediately, getting its arms behind one of the kaiju’s limbs to keep it from diving back into the bay, while Amelie activated Storm Bow protocol. The cord came out from the Jaeger’s wrist, thin as fishing line, stronger than titanium alloy. Then Hanzo hooked it to a catch on the other wrist and pulled until there was enough extra line left to attach it to _Izanami_ ’s chest. When it was done, the cord looked vaguely like a crossbow.

Ana’s urgent shouts came on the link as the kaiju continued to thrash and wail with its undulating, acid-filled gullet, just as the sky directly above _Izanami_ grew fragmented with streaks of powerful, heated lightning that combined into a searing white. And the air was rent by a strike that seemed to cut through the fabric of reality when it slammed into the _Izanami_ , resulting in a billowing cloud of spray and steam that briefly obscured the now sparking, crackling, spitting bow held aloft in the Jaeger’s hands. 

Deftly, Hanzo nocked it with an arrow taken from a compartment in the Jaeger’s right arm. Since it was made of the same material, the lightning spread to it, volatile, deadly, and aimed straight at Jaggerhead’s heart. 

Before they could release it, however, something in the depths whipped around Izanami’s legs, and yanked with enough force to throw them off-balance, causing the shot to go wide and slam into the kaiju’s shoulder instead, causing the flesh at the site of impact to boil. Though the creature screamed in agony, its thrashing only increased in strength, forcing the _American Anubis_ to release it. 

It was the last thing the pilots of the _Izanami_ saw before they were dragged beneath the surface.

 

“ _Izanami_ ’s gone radio silent, Marshall,” Winston said solemnly. He knew what was coming, knew what had to be done, but still had to ask, “What are your orders?”

Reyes was standing at his side, keeping an close watch on the pilot’s vitals. He hadn’t lost anyone so far, but one crack in the hull and both of the _Izanami_ pilots would drown in their cockpit. 

Before he had a chance to respond, Ana came on the comm, furious and afraid, _Gabriel, don’t you dare._

After taking a moment to massage his weary eyes, Reyes pressed a button on the control panel to respond, “It’s the only way, Ana. The fate of the world rests on this mission’s success. I can’t spare her from this.”

_She’s a child._

Although her temper was rising, Reyes kept his own firmly tamped down. He was no good to anyone if he couldn’t control his own emotions. Softly, he asked, “And how many more children will die if those monsters aren’t stopped?”

Everyone sitting in the control room could hear the shriek of the kaiju in the background, the hum of machinery, the screech of metal carved away by claws, but it didn’t drown out Ana’s quietly despairing plea. 

_Reyes… She’s my daughter._

“I’m sorry.” He ordered _Wild Abandon_ ’s deployment, and prayed to anyone who was listening that God would forgive him, because he certainly wasn’t going to.

 

Genji hadn’t known exactly what to call it, but when the kaiju yanked on their legs like it was trying to rip them off (which it, in all likelihood, was), sending a shock of white hot pain through the connection, Hanzo’s grip on _something_ had slipped, and then he was falling, hurtling through memories of a childhood he could still recall, but now he was once again seeing it through new eyes.

His brother’s eyes. 

When the Drift finally settled on a destination, he found himself standing in the hallways of Hanamura once more, dressed in the same clothes and armor he had worn on the night Hanzo had struck him down. He walked aimlessly through the familiar labyrinth, too occupied by the sight of his own flesh hands to care where his feet led him,until the murmur of hushed voices gave him pause. He looked around at the paintings of past Shimada _oyabuns_ , orienting himself. If memory served, then this room had belonged to his and Hanzo’s shared History tutor.

Frowning, Genji crept closer to press his ear against the door. At once, he heard his brother’s voice, “I am hence forth resigning from the Shimada name, as well as all associated responsibilities and privileges.” 

As quietly as his stealth training allowed, Genji opened the door to peer inside, where Hanzo was sitting amiably with their former teacher, drinking tea. 

Matter-of-factly, as though they were merely discussing the weather, the old man replied, “They will hunt you.”

If this were news to Hanzo, he didn’t show it. “I look forward to it.”

It was the last straw for Genji. He kicked the door open, storming into the study with a furious, “Are you serious?” He jabbed a finger at Hanzo’s chest, though he showed no sign of having heard as he took another sip of his tea. “All that about not abandoning the clan, serving the clan, and the first thing you do after killing me is leave? Did I mean _anything_ to you?”

He was panting for breath, his chest hurt like someone had stepped on it, but neither of the men reacted, forcing Genji to realize that this, like everything else he had seen in the Drift, was a memory. He couldn’t change an event that had already happened, no matter how much he wanted to - needed to know how Hanzo could betray him, strike his own family down without remorse, and then turn his back on the very clan he’d sacrificed so much for. 

“Why did you come here, Hanzo? Why tell me this?” Genji whirled at the sound of their teacher, having almost entirely forgotten his presence. “You know I cannot simply allow you to leave without reporting this to the Elders.” He looked regretful, but resigned, as though it was only the way of things that he would be condemning his best student to death. 

Still, Hanzo nodded to show he bore the wizened old man no ill will. He’d expected this, Genji realized, but he’d come to visit, anyway, when it would have been so much easier, so much safer just to disappear in the night. When Hanzo finally answered, there were no tears in his eyes, but his expression was weary, the first glimpse Genji had seen of the sad and broken man he would become. 

“Who else would I tell, _sensei_? Everyone who ever loved me is already dead.“

 

Straining against the chains shackled to his wrists and ankles, Hanzo snarled at his captors through the wet bangs plastered over his forehead, baring teeth that glittered like fangs and eyes that shone a luminescent blue in the dark. “This clan will rot,” he promised. “No. Genji was right. It is already rotten. How far will you go to protect its putrid corpse?”

Thin lips curled at the corners of his mouth, the head of clan security, Saito, stepped forward to deal Hanzo a ruthless backhanded blow across the face. Grimacing up at his jailer, Hanzo leaned forward to spit a lob of crimson saliva at his feet. 

Stiffening, Saito glared down at Hanzo with blatant disdain, then ordered his lackies to, “Hold him down.”

Surprised, Hanzo blinked, confused by the sudden onset of unwelcome hands pinning him to the floor. He realized what was going to happen a split second before Genji did when Saito stepped into the cell with Hanzo’s own katana held tightly in his grasp, causing the young heir to writhe and scratch and bite to get free, like a true caged animal. 

And Genji screamed at the men to stop, screamed at Hanzo to run, to fight. He screamed, his own voice joining with the agonized cries of his brother when the blade fell on his right leg. It took several tries to get the limb off completely, but by then he’d nearly passed out from the pain. And there was still one leg left to take. 

“I’d like to see you try to run from the clan now, my _lord_ ,” Saito sneered when he was done, but Hanzo wasn’t listening. He was too pale, staring emptily at the bloody, bandaged stumps where his legs had once been. 

Before leaving, Saito asked, “Should I leave this sword with you? Grant you the option of an honorable depth?” Though the action was sluggish, Hanzo raised his head at the offer, the spark of some indescribable emotion coming to life within the depths of his gaze. But Saito only scoffed, “I think not,” and the spark was abruptly snuffed out. 

For reasons he couldn’t fully understand, there was little Genji wanted to do more strongly in that moment than paint the walls with that man’s blood. It just didn’t make sense. Hanzo had murdered him. By all rights, he’d earned this, deserved it. 

So why did the sight of Hanzo burying his bloodless face in his hands as sobs, devastated, harsh, and raw, burst unbidden from his throat upset him so much? It didn’t feel like justice, or even vengeance. 

It felt wrong. 

Unable to stand it, anymore, Genji yelled at the memory, “You did this!” And as though he could really hear, Hanzo shuddered. “You don’t get to play the victim here. Not after what you did to me.” He did his best to hold onto the anger, the rage, only to be abandoned in the end, just when he’d needed them most. Sinking to his knees onto a floor tacky with congealing blood, Genji gripped the bars of Hanzo’s cell, and stared, transfixed by the point at which flesh abruptly and brutally ended. “...Your legs.”

Then, quietly, so quietly Genji could almost convince himself he’d imagined it, a hoarse whisper traveled through the stagnant air, “I’m so sorry, Genji.” Even after hearing it second time, and then a third, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it was real, but it didn’t stop. Hanzo repeated the words like they were all he could say, all he knew, not a mantra that would keep him sane, but a requirement for existing. And hearing them, Genji finally came to a decision. 

He let go.

Reaching through the bars, Genji gripped his brother’s hand.

 

Hanzo returned to consciousness feeling much the same as he did after waking from a nightmare, shaky and jittery and cold. In this instance, however, the overwhelming sense of drowning wasn’t entirely metaphorical. _Izanami_ ’s protective glass visor had fractured, which explained the frigid Alaskan water spraying his face and pooling around his heels.

Instinctively, he twisted to check on his co-pilot, ignoring the incessant tugging of the connection cords attached to his back. The movement set off an abrupt wave of vertigo, and his vision blurred into amorphous shapes stained crimson by the red filters which accompanied the alarms blaring their warning from every angle. With a frustrated growl, Hanzo forced himself to focus on the slumped form suspended on the platform next to him, “Amelie!” The only thing keeping her from tumbling into _Izanami_ ’s engine were the attachments on her drivesuit and the omnic crouched protectively over her as she groaned, her eyelids fluttering as though they were just slightly beyond her power to lift. It stroked her hair with a gentleness Hanzo had never before witnessed in a machine, though it was clearly careful not to touch the matted patch plastered to her temple, where a nasty gash ran slick, slippery blood down the side of her face. 

Upon realizing that the disorientation and nausea that dredged up unwelcome and distracting memories from those rare occasions when Genji had talked him into drinking weren’t his own, Hanzo concentrated on extricating his own sight from Amelie’s, resulting in a strange, sickening sense of double vision, since they were still deeply entrenched in the Drift, but he could focus, he could move. It was less than he would have liked but exactly what was needed, as it enabled him to shove their shared malady aside. It wasn’t his, and even if it was, it wasn’t important. 

It seemed his own omnic hadn’t disengaged from his platform. In fact, while both of _Izanami_ ’s pilots had been out-of-commission, it had remained to contribute what power it could alone, but without the human pilots, there was very little it could do. It had nothing to offer the Drift – nothing that the Jaeger could pick on, at least. 

Even so, it had tried to dislodge the tail wrapped like a hangman’s noose around _Izanami_ ’s neck, to stop the beast from dragging them deeper and deeper into the ocean. Sparks rained down from its knee joints due to the strain of piloting the Jaeger but itself, and for the first time since he’d met the omnic, Hanzo was grateful for its presence. 

Reaching behind his back, Hanzo grabbed the first cord he could get his hands on and then tore it off, resulting in a disconnect as the nerves struggled to adjust to the sudden lack of feedback that was both immediate and unbalancing. To go from feeling everything to feeling nothing was akin to a sudden drop, like taking a step on the expectation that there would be solid ground beneath your feet, only to discover there was nothing but air. 

This wasn’t his first experience with Post-Drift emptiness and its voracious appetite, though. He knew that the emptiness was an illusion, that his own senses would take awhile to get used to after the heightened intensity of joining with the Jaeger, but there wasn’t any time to grow accustomed to it. The only thing to do was press on and hope that even his seemingly dulled senses would be enough to recognize any injuries that were serious enough to warrant attention. 

Finally, he was disengaged and he lurched forward, stubbling on a floating sheet of blank paper that stuck to the bottom of his sole. The floor of the cockpit was covered with them, little white boats floating in a restless sea. 

The kaiju dragging them under shrieked, causing the red emergency lights to fluctuate dangerously while Hanzo clapped his hands to his ears to keep his eardrums from bursting. 

There had to be a way to get rid of it.

Once the horrible screeching stopped, Hanzo sloshed his way through the rising water to kneel next to the omnic at Amelie’s side. After a brief hesitation, it passed her to him. He positioned his elbow beneath her head to support her, to keep her upright while he examined the extent of the wound on her temple, and her lashes fluttered, revealing a darkened, unfocused gaze, “Gerard?”

She sounded so vulnerable, so raw and confused, that he felt a physical ache in his chest when he silently shook his head. Beside him, her omnic had gone very, very still, but Hanzo wasn’t in any state to think too much of it, so he mentally added it to the long list of mysteries he would have to solve another time and gently passed her back to it. “Get her in the escape pod,” it should have come out like an order, but the strain of the interrupted Drift and overwhelming concern for his partner turned it soft, pleading. “There should be enough room for you in there, as well.” The omnic nodded soundlessly, its arms already repositioning themselves so that they would jostle Amelie as little as possible when it was time to move her. “You go when we’re clear of this monster, and not a second later. It’s designed to take you straight to the surface.” He paused, struggling for words when the kaiju suddenly swerved, causing the ground to tip violently beneath them. Growling, Hanzo reached out a hand to steady the omnic before it could slide into him. Gripping its shoulder tightly, he shouted over the blaring alarms and sirens, “I’m trusting you to do whatever it takes to get her back to the Shatterdome! Do you hear me?”

It nodded once. Twice. Hanzo relaxed. Unbidden, his gaze drifted down to Amelie’s too pale face, to the weak hand that batted feebly against her omnic’s chest, as though she knew what he was planning, knew that she would be forced to leave him behind. With a noticeable slur that did nothing to erase the steel in her spine, she told him, “’m not leaving you.”

She didn’t drop her stern, stubborn gaze until Hanzo’s hand found hers. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said, nearly choking on the lie. But she nodded, accepting it, believing it. And why not? He’d never lied to her before. 

It seemed like the omnic wanted to say something after the archer nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak at the moment, because it leaned forward, its head tilted slightly so that it stared up at the conflict plainly seen in Hanzo’s expression, but the only sound that issued from its mouth was static. Before he could make anything of it, Hanzo’s comm crackled, and familiar voice, high with worry, called, _Izanami, what’s your status?_

Hearing that, Hanzo nearly sagged with relief. “We’re submerged, Winston. The exterior hull is damaged and we’ve taken on water.” He shot a scowl at the mottled purple and blue tail spiraled around _Izanami_ ’s visor, “Any suggestions on how to separate ourselves from this beast would be greatly appreciated.”

There was a brief sound of a scuffle in the control room, a cry followed by - _What the hell did you do to your eye, Ziegler?_ \- before a panicked, absurdly young-sounding girl replaced Winston’s deep tones on the comm, _No, don’t! It’s dragging you to the Breach, and you need a kaiju to get through! If you just let it take you, you might be able to activate the nuclear reactor and shut it down for good._ Pressing his thumbs against his eyes to relieve some of the pressure pounding within his skull, Hanzo pictured the teenaged prodigy that always trailed after Winston like a tired pup, with bags under her clear blue eyes and a smile that said she was running on fumes and caffeine. 

Was he willing to trust a child with a PH.D with his life and the lives of every man, woman, and child still drawing breath, besides? 

Normally, the answer would have been a resounding, earth-shattering no, but every word she’d said had rung with sincerity. This was something she believed in wholeheartedly, something she’d been willing to fight her own allies for if it meant being heard. 

It was no deception, no child’s prank, and yet, he wondered if she truly realized the extent of what she was asking of him. Well, it didn’t matter much to him whether she did or not, but “I won’t do it with Amelie on board,” a line had been drawn, one which he wouldn’t cross, not even for the world. 

Reyes took over, making his irritation known, _Shimada, we are talking about ending the war here. You cannot let your personal feelings get in the way of that._

Sacrifice the few for the many, cast his emotions aside and do what was necessary. It all sounded so goddamn familiar. Gripping the comm so tightly his knuckles groaned at the pressure, he replied, his anger carefully restrained so that heat and fire laced his words without spiraling out of control, “She deserves a say in this,” in his peripheral, Hanzo saw that his own omnic had swiveled to stare, “but as she is currently in no state to do so, the decision falls to me.” Rising to his full height, Hanzo nodded towards the escape pods, watched the omnic weather Amelie’s feeble protests as it carried her to the escape pods, then announced with the full weight of his dignity and pride, “For this final mission, _Izanagi_ will be more than enough.”

 

Exhilarated by the drop into the sea and the adrenaline rush that came with every battle, McCree let out a loud whoop. He and Fareeha could make out the still ongoing battle, but _Anubis_ had obviously taken a few hits in the interim between the _Izanami_ getting dragged away by a Category IV and their deployment. There were deep scores across the Jaeger’s scarlet visor that, with any luck, hadn’t breached the cockpit. Upon seeing them, Fareeha’s matching grin morphed into something fierce. 

With her lips pressed into a thin, grim line, she triggered the release of _Wild Abandon_ ’s lasso, and Jesse was in her head, helping her aim the superheated alloy. 

It whipped over the cockpit, sunshine gold against a black and blue backdrop that had yet to be lightened by the approaching dawn. 

The lasso shot from their grasp to sail towards the kaiju in an arc so graceful it would have made a ballerina jealous, and then it looped itself around Jaggerhead’s rippling neck. There was a burst of steam from the point of contact, and it screeched, knocking out lights and electricity for miles.

Keeping Jaggerhead’s thrashing head within his sights, McCree yanked on the rope, tightening it in the hopes that it would burn all the way through to the spine, and crowed, “Let’s show these old timers how it’s done! What do you say, ‘reeha?”

Fareehe surged forward, something untamed and feral causing her to bare her teeth and howl, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

_JESSE! What are you teaching my daughter?!_

 

Shame flooded Hanzo at the sound of the ongoing battle coming through his earpiece. It had been his and Amelie’s wish that they never be dragged into this fight 

When he made to return to his platform – because alone or not, impossible or not, he still had a job to do – it was to find his omnic standing directly behind him. After the stress of the day, if the kaiju didn’t kill him, then a heart attack surely would. 

The ground shifted beneath their feet as the kaiju dragging them under altered its course, and Hanzo felt himself stumble. He reached out for a handhold, for something to steady himself, but his fingers touched nothing but empty air. Before he could fall, however, the omnic grabbed his arm, its grip too tight, bruising, but it kept him from falling, kept him from being dragged through the remains of _Izanagi_ ’s glass visor and swept out to sea. 

Its movements were silent. Its reflexes were lightning quick. 

After muttering his thanks in his home language, Hanzo allowed his lips to quirk up at the sides with subdued mirth when he told the omnic, “In a different life, you may well have made for an excellent ninja.” The machine jerked as though it’d been shocked, its grip momentarily growing painful before it abruptly released him. Hanzo stepped towards his platform, his mind already moving the past the omnic’s strange behavior as it worked through every scenario that would lead to the _Izanagi_ ’s freedom and the mission’s success, but when he spared the machine a backwards glance, it had yet to move. 

He fumbled with the cords he needed to secure, finding reattaching them frustrating and trying since he couldn’t see his own back and thus was effectively doing it blind. He’d managed to get the one, but the others… He couldn’t get the angle right. He could feel the friction between the metal fasteners as he clumsily tried to join them like an ache in his teeth, “ _Kuso_.” 

Then the cords and wires were plucked from grasp by cold, slender fingers. Hanzo listened without comment to the omnic’s bursts of harsh static while it fastened the attachments, somehow certain that he was being fervently insulted. 

By the time it was finished, the neural load was overwhelming. Not even the supernovas exploding in his vision could compare to the damage ravaged upon his mind. It felt as though he was going to burst, and everything he’d ever been, every thought he’d ever had, would disappear in a blaze. 

Until, unexpectedly, it eased. Not enough to free him of the pain or the pressure entirely, but enough for him to think, to feel, to move. 

Ignoring the warmth dripping from his nostrils, Hanzo turned to his left to see that the omnic had attached itself to Amelie’s platform. It still felt empty, like sharing mind space with a black hole, but it was unquestionably thanks to the machine’s intervention that he was no longer paralyzed by the agony of bearing the neural load alone. 

Its actions were confusing, irrational. The omnic had tried to throttle him within seconds of meeting him, yet now it was passing up chance after chance of letting him die. Could it be that it wouldn’t be satisfied unless he died at its hands? Or was it simply prioritizing the mission over taking his life? 

Realizing he didn’t have time to ponder the omnic’s motivations, Hanzo nodded his thanks, though he couldn’t help adding with a smirk, “You are terrible at killing me.”

In response, it did something very rude with its hands, startling a laugh out of Hanzo, though his amusement faded when his companion once more went rigid at the sound, hands still lifted in front of its chest. He’d almost forgotten that the omnic hated him, a rather dangerous misstep on his part. 

Though he mentally cursed himself for unintentionally offending the only ally capable of helping him turn the tide, Hanzo shifted his focus to the tail wrapped around their vessel, “We need to get free of this thing.” 

With that one goal in mind, he and the omnic sank into a battle stance, each unconsciously mirroring the other. Some distant, quiet part of Hanzo wondered if it wasn’t the Drift causing them to sync like this, but no – this went beyond that. Rather than a sharing of experiences, it felt more like a reawakening of something old, something ingrained, not in his mind, but in his body. In his heart.

 

“Are you just mashing buttons?” 

Too busy pressing random buttons on the holographic screen floating in front of his face, Genji didn’t bother turning to look at Hanzo. He already knew what he would see, brows knitted in frustration, a slight frown that would only grow deeper and more emphatic with time. 

_I am a state-of-the-art omnic or something, Hanzo, I know what I’m doing._

He had no idea what he was doing. All he knew was the water level had reached Hanzo’s torso, the leaks had turned into spouts and torrents, which meant there wasn’t much time left before the cockpit would be completely submerged, which would severely diminish Hanzo's chances of surviving this.

And Genji could’ve punched himself in the face, because for some inexplicable reason, despite all common sense and a slew of excellent reasons for him to wish for his brother’s death, not least of which being his current form…

He didn’t want that. 

With a cry like the screech of scraping metal, he furiously jabbed a button in the uppermost right corner of the screen, only to feel a sudden, phantom sensation of weight in his hands. 

Staring outside the protective glass shield at the silver shurikens pulsing a soft green between _Izanagi_ ’s fingers, Hanzo breathed an awed, “We have shurikens.”

_Yosha, we have shurikens!_

Now, this was more like it. The kaiju caught wind of the change, however. Maybe it was a shift in the currents, or maybe it was the pulsing light the weapons emanated, but their motion came to a sudden halt as its crocodilian head twisted to face them. Then its body wrapped around them, choking, suffocating. Hanzo gritted his teeth against the surge of panic rising within him at the ghosting pressure squeezing his ribs. 

As one, they drew back their arms, synthetic and organic limbs tensing with potential before releasing the pent-up power in an explosion of will. The stars shot from _Izanagi_ 's grasp, and just as they’d pictured it, sunk into the fleshy snout of their adversary. It reared back with an agonized roar that shook ocean floor, sending up clouds of sand to muddy the waters, but it wasn’t enough to save it. Hanzo’s arm darted forward, a motion which caused _Izanagi_ to jam an open palm into the blubber coating the beast’s chest. A building heat at the base of Genji’s arm was all the warning he received before a blast of focused energy erupted from the Jaeger’s hand, and though it didn’t last long beneath the sea, the close range allowed it to carve a perfect, smoldering hole in the kaiju. 

It was lucky that the wound was both fatal and cauterized, as the last thing they needed was its poisonous blood flowing into the cockpit. 

Withdrawing _Izanagi_ ’s arm from the corpse with a noise of disgust, Hanzo stared coldly at the remains of the fallen creature as its tail fell limp and its body began to drift into the distance. “That,” he sneered, “was for wasting my time.” And he slammed a fist down on the manual escape pod ejection, sending Amelie and Gerard out of any lingering damage as they were launched to the surface. 

It was a glimpse of a side of Hanzo he hadn’t expected to see, and while Genji couldn’t honestly say he’d missed it, it was something of a relief to know that Hanzo was not quite as changed as he’d appeared. 

After taking stock of the toll the kaiju’s assault had done to his prosthetics with a withering glare, noting a black char that looked too similar to electrical burns to be a coincidence, Hanzo paused long enough to fill his lungs, before directing the Jaeger back to the Breach. 

The young Swedish girl from earlier came back on the comm, sounding like she was hanging onto her composure by a thread. Apparently, the Rift was going to open again soon, and this time, the kaiju it released would be stronger than any other they’d encountered. 

It was a testament to how close they were to putting a permanent wrench in the kaiju’s plans for total global takeover that the hive mind was now sending out its best to stop them in their tracks. 

For a while, Hanzo refused to speak. In fact, he made no attempt to even look at his copilot again until after they were standing on the edge of a smoldering X carved into the ocean floor. It’d taken them precious minutes to get there, what with their legs being mostly out of commission, but with the Rift closed, there was nothing to do but fill the gradually shrinking space in the cockpit with sound. “I am sorry you had to be trapped down here with someone you hate,” it was sincere, honest, and tinged with regret, “but thank you for staying with me, regardless. As selfish as it is, I was… grateful for the company.” His gaze darted to the sole remaining escape pod. It was nearly fully submerged now, rendering it useless for a human. “But if you stay now, I cannot guarantee that you will ever leave this place.”

He stared determinedly straight ahead, while Genji tried to make sense of the chaotic emotions swirling, mixing, clashing within him. Where had this kindness been when he’d needed it? Why was Hanzo so willing to bestow this choice upon a stranger, a machine, but not his own little brother?

Had he truly meant so little to him?

But Hanzo was afraid. Though others would have missed it, the signs were clear to him, the hard set of his jaw, the tense line of his shoulders. It was a fear that bled through their connection, and with it, came a vivid picture of his own face, as it screamed at Hanzo to let him leave, let him go. 

Let him live. 

Straightening, Genji expelled steam through his vents. He would need time. To sort through the black, roiling hatred he still felt at Hanzo’s betrayal, and the love for his brother that thrived despite it, its roots having grown too deep within him, become too entrenched in the very fabric of his soul, to be detached and devoured.

Hanzo owed him that much. 

Genji recognized the exact moment when Hanzo realized he wasn’t leaving, because the tension drained out of him in increments, the carefully constructed mask of indifference crumbling from the sheer relief of knowing that he wouldn’t have to face the end alone. Then the Breach shuddered, expanded, and a creature with a head that was roughly the size _Izanagi_ ’s entire body burst forth. It was sinew and muscle, built for speed, with flesh that rippled as it moved and yellow, bulging eyes.

Genji longed to bare his teeth at the monster, to glare into those huge, dilated irises and scream his defiance, but to his surprise, it was Hanzo’s lips that curled into the very expression he’d imagined. Perhaps his side of the Drift was not so empty, after all. 

He decided to test that theory, _I am calling this one Doomfist. It is a proper edgy name for a final boss._

Hanzo arced a brow in response, but that could have meant anything. Maybe he’d left the stove on. Or maybe he was finally coming to grips with how utterly screwed they were. The possibilities were endless. 

The kaiju shrieked, an earsplitting wail that rattled inside Genji’s head. And he didn’t have a squishy, organic brain for the sound to vibrate into mush. It was impossible to tell how badly Hanzo was affected with his helmet on, but a glistening crimson flowing freely from his nostrils made it clear that drawing out the battle anymore was not an option. 

Massive jaws clamped onto the remnants of _Izanagi_ ’s limbs, and it shook them, slammed down against the ocean floor like a dog playing with a chew toy. The water rushed over their heads now, which wouldn’t have been a problem if the constant damage hadn’t jammed Hanzo’s oxygen supply. 

Their holographic screens blinked red. An image of an oxygen tank on its last dregs flashed in the bottom corner, and Genji scrolled through the list of viable weaponry faster, no longer content to ignore the wealth of useful, Jaeger piloting information he'd been programmed with. 

While he searched his internal database for something useful in close range, which was apparently asking for a lot when both of the pilots were snipers, Hanzo inputted a code, causing _Izanagi_ ’s ribbon to whip forward and slice through the kaiju’s chest, forcing it to loosen its hold on them.

Having realized it was the biggest break they were going to get, Genji decided not to waste it. 

He slammed a palm down on the most recent addition to the Jaeger’s arsenal, and the _Izanagi_ responded by reaching over its shoulder to detach its spine, which straightened joint by joint into a rigid sword. A familiar weight in his hands, an extension of himself, his past and future entwined, soldered together into steel.

It was heavy, too heavy to bear alone, which was why it was so fortunate that he didn’t have to. He felt Hanzo’s strength join his, and through him, Amelie. He caught glimspes of smiling faces, snippets of late night conversations. Affection, acceptance, compassion, and a fierce desire to protect. 

With their spirits joined in a roar of rage and defiance, they barreled through Doomfist’s defenses to deal a final, fatal blow to its torso that cut into the shallow diagonal slash it’d been dealt before. Though it was difficult to tell with the clouds of Kaiju Blue obscuring their field of vision, the sensation of the blow tingled in Genji’s palms. He was sure that their blade had severed the beast’s spine, but just to be safe, he sliced a line across its throat. The flesh puckered, gapped, then split at impact.

Leaning forward to see through the haze, Hanzo squinted his eyes at all the blue. “I suppose I cannot fault you for being thorough.” And a burst of white noise, drowned out by the alarms but still audible to those locked in the Drift, filled the cockpit like a startled laugh. 

Then they gripped Doomfist by shoulders, and plowed the corpse into the Rift, allowing it to swallow them both. 

 

The Kaiju Homeworld was cavernous, with every inch of available space occupied with fangs and claws and shifting shadows. Too many eyes followed them as they fell.

Hanzo’s breaths were shallow, the cockpit completely submerged, but it didn’t take much to fall. Anyone could do it. 

Their minds were synced now, with Genji’s own thoughts appearing to Hanzo as wordless impressions of panic, confusion, and worry, none of which he’d expected to come from the omnic that once tried to strangle him. 

He tried to tell it to leave, because he was dying, because even though his oxygen had depleted to the point where black spots flashed in his vision, his hands still remembered the weight of the blade, the sensation of flesh splitting at the seams. Heart pounding in his chest, he struggled to remain in the present, where there was still one last task for him to complete. 

No longer sure if he was speaking out loud or merely forming the words in his mind, Hanzo plugged in the self-destruct, set the timer for a minute, and grunted, “There’s still time. Go.”

He didn’t expect the omnic to yank him off his platform.

It dragged him through the water, chattering angrily and hissing the entire time as a stream of bubbles spewed forth from its faceplate. When he refused to respond, however, the omnic gave him a frustrated shake. They were so close to the escape pods. The timer was nearly at zero. 

_Snap out of it, Hanzo! Are you a Shimada or aren’t you?!_

Hanzo blinked. 

It sounded like-

But it couldn’t be.

Forcing the entirety of his remaining energy to the forefront, Hanzo raised his head to look closely at the omnic with a mix of hope and fear in his dark eyes.“…Genji?”

Upon hearing his name leave his brother's mouth, Genji froze, one pointed metal finger hovering over the release button for the last escape pod. There were so many things they needed to talk about, so much Genji needed to ask him - none of which he could do if he let him die now. 

Snarling, he punched the release, and the escape pod flew upon, allowing him to stuff Hanzo in there. He went inside without resistance, which, if Genji knew anything about his brother, meant he was unconscious. 

Refusing to let it end there, Genji squeezed in alongside him, brute-forced the door shut, and triggered the launch.

 

_-we’re not getting any readings off him –_

_\- it could be the suit -_

_\- he’s not breathing -_

Having gone offline for a second thanks to the shockwave, Genji hadn’t anticipated the onslaught of worried comm chatter that would make it clear that, yes, he had survived, and no, he wasn’t a pile of discarded scrap metal under the sea.

But something was still wrong. He was cramped, locked inside the escape pod with Hanzo, but there was no movement in the container besides his own, no wheezing, shallow breaths or grumbling. And, suddenly, all those fragments of conversation made a terrible kind of sense. 

He kicked off the pod’s hatch, sending it flying, then scrambled to an upright position so that he could rip the helmet off of Hanzo’s head and toss it. This was expensive equipment he was ruining but he honestly didn’t care, not when the world had been saved, the kaiju defeated, and his brother wasn’t _breathing_. 

Genji pounded on Hanzo’s chest, willing him to cough, to groan, to complain. All he had to do was take a breath. Just one. It wasn’t hard. It was the easiest thing in the world, even easier than falling.

And then a sudden convulsion wracked Hanzo’s body, followed by his eyes shooting open as he sucked down a gulp of precious air. It was followed by a harsh coughing fit, and Genji sat back, giving him space as relief and exhaustion flooded him in turns. 

“I thought you hated me.”

He looked up at that, surprised that Hanzo remembered that particular revelation, and even more so that those would be his first words to him after they’d narrowly survived a nuclear explosion. 

Too tired to move, Genji waved a flippant hand in an attempt to dispel some of the tense atmosphere forming between them. _I thought I did, too. Guess we were both wrong._

This was it, then. 

Well, better get it over with. _Aren’t you revolted?_ He thought venomously, and watched Hanzo flinch. _This body. I’m not even human, anymore, I’m –_

Fake. A weapon. A monster. 

Under the clear blue sky, rocked gently by the ocean in the pod they shared while gulls called overhead, he couldn’t bring himself to finish.

He didn’t have to. 

Hanzo’s thick, corded arms wrapped around him, and for a moment, Genji panicked, thinking he was being attacked, that maybe Hanzo had finally remembered that he had tried to throttle him a few days prior and decided to return the favor, but Hanzo’s shoulders were shaking, his body trembling,

After tentatively resting a palm on his back, Genji worried that the tremors were a side effect of oxygen deprivation. It was an explanation that seemed so much more likely than Hanzo - stern, cold, collected Hanzo - weeping freely on his shoulder.

And little by little, the ice in his own heart began to thaw. 

_It’s okay, anija. I am here... I am with you._

A thrumming in the air heralded the arrival of a helicopter with a cowboy hat sticking out of it that would take them back to base, though it was still far enough in the distance that Hanzo would have time to compose himself. And that was what they had now, wasn’t it? Time. 

But even knowing that, it didn’t change the fact that things between them had been irrevocably changed. 

Hanzo had friends now. A family that he’d chosen for himself. 

A home. 

How could he, an omnic programmed with the memories of his dead brother, possibly belong in such a warm and happy place? 

“Will you stay?” Genji looked down to see Hanzo scrubbing at his eyes with the backs of his knuckles, his expression open and raw in a way Genji hadn’t seen since they were boys. After dealing with a mask for so long, he’d almost forgotten that Hanzo was even capable of making such a face. 

With a fondness for his brother that Genji hadn’t expected to feel again, he thought with as much gentleness and sincerity as he could muster, _I doubt you could get rid of me if you tried._

Floating not too far from them was a similar escape pod, its hatch torn off its hinges as their’s had been. Hanzo glanced at the interior of the bobbing pod where his copilot rested, her chest rising and falling steadily, and then up at the omnic sitting on the edge. It waved.

Though the inside of his mouth tasted of brine and bile, Hanzo forced himself to swallow. “Is it - Is he also… like you?” Thinking back to how the omnic had hovered over Amelie, how eagerly it had agreed to protect her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, he realized he already knew. 

Once things settled down some, he planned on having a serious conversation with one Marshall Gabriel Reyes. 

It wasn’t long before they were all loaded onto the helicopter and en route to the Shatterdome, where a hero’s welcome awaited them. Amelie woke up shortly before they landed, and Hanzo was at her side in an instant, taking her hand in his, letting her know that she was okay, that she was safe. Her startling yellow eyes focused on him, afraid. “Did we protect them?”

Hanzo stepped aside to show her McCree trying to chat up the pair of omnics sitting on the bench (it was a very one-sided conversation) while unbeknownst to him, Fareeha stood behind him, imitating his mannerisms with what had to be the silliest expression she could think of. Closer to the pilot’s seat, Morrison snored softly on Ana’s shoulder while he dozed. Zarya and Mei laid sprawled out on the opposite bench, a little beaten, a little bruised, but unquestionably safe. 

Reassured, Amelie gave his hand a light squeeze before settling down into her cot with a tired smile. “Good answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if there were any errors I missed, guys. I tried to save the fully edited version but the internet let me down and I didn't realize it until after I'd already published this 15k monster. 
> 
> Edit: Okay, I went over it again and should have gotten most of the typos/errors. In other news, disteal has an amazing Gerard comic on tumblr which wound up inspiring some of the backstory seen in this chapter. As for Hanzo... not even canon can take the prosthetics headcanon away from me.


	24. 786 Cranes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji gets sick. Hanzo does what he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daijoubu, otouto - It's okay, little brother
> 
> Boku wa itsumo soba ni iru yo - I'll always be by your side

Crease. 

Fold.

Press.

Smooth.

The translucent colored paper has become a familiar comfort beneath Hanzo’s fingertips as he repeats the motion with unwavering focus on each new sheet. He’s sitting in an armchair with the fire lit, ignoring the hours as they pause and the sting of shallow cuts on his skin. At his side is a small mountain of perfect cranes, each of them vibrant, alive even in their stillness, as though they could dip their long, slender necks or take flight at any moment. 

If he could make them perfect, make them beautiful, then maybe the spirits would be pleased, and Genji wouldn’t have to stay in bed, anymore. 

The doctors assured him that it was only a small fever, that he would be better in two to three days if he didn’t try to sneak out of bed again, but Hanzo had never been sick before, not even as a baby. And if he never got sick, then Genji shouldn’t either, right? So something had to be wrong. 

Because he’d seen exactly one other sick person in his life and they never got better. 

He'd torn out of a sparring lesson like there were hounds nipping at his heels so that he could race to Genji’s bedside, only to discover that nothing had changed since his last visit. Genji's skin was still flushed with spots of pink on his cheeks, his palms clammy and cold to the touch. Careful not to wake him, Hanzo swept a lock of sweaty bangs to the side, conscious of the fiery heat emanating from his little brother’s forehead. 

When Genji whimpered in his sleep, sounding dazed and lost, Hanzo gently hushed him, and ran a palm over his head in a soothing, repetitive motion, “ _Daijoubu, otouto. Boku wa itsumo soba ni iru yo._ ” 

Gradually, the whimpers eased. Genji slipped further into restless sleep, and Hanzo set out to find every scrap of paper in Shimada Castle. Medicine and science alone weren’t enough to cure sickness on their own, not without help. 

And this time, Hanzo would make sure they got the help they needed. 

It was that decision which led to him crafting origami late into the night, with his textbooks abandoned and gathering dust in his bedroom. The pile had grown so large that it spilled across the floor, but though his fingers ached and protested, he kept going. If he kept up his current pace, he was sure he would have a thousand ready by dawn. 

So engrossed was he in the task, he didn’t hear his father’s approach, “What are you doing?” Hanzo jerked at the unexpected address, accidentally tearing the crane’s wing he’d been flattening to a point. It wasn’t a terrible loss, but the crane would have been beautiful. Even so, Hanzo resolved to finish it, if only because he knew Genji would rather keep the crane himself than see it thrown away for its broken wing. 

Raising his head to reveal carefully shuttered features, a skill he’d picked up quickly in his required lessons, Hanzo met his father’s gaze. In the swirling depths, he thought he might have seen surprise, but that sole emotion was quickly smothered, and Sojiro regarded his eldest with practiced stoicism. “You should be in bed.”

Quickly averting his gaze, Hanzo pressed his lips into a thin stubborn line. It was patently obvious what he was doing, why he was doing it. Since he didn’t trust himself to speak, he remained silent, but made no move to leave the chair. 

Eventually, Sojiro sighed. Hanzo stiffened at the sound of paper rustling, but before he could do more than shout, his father had tossed an armful of the beautiful birds in the fireplace. 

Flying from his seat, Hanzo darted past his father, dodging his arms to thrust his hands into the fire, to salvage as much as he could. 

He managed to pluck out a dozen charred cranes before pain brought a cry spilling from his lips as the flames and embers licked his hands to a ruby redness that glistened, and the surface of his arms began to bubble and writhe. 

A grip around his collar dragged him away from the fire. In a moment of madness, Hanzo glared up at the looming figure of his father with furious tears spilling down his cheeks as one by one the fire claimed the head and neck and wings of every crane he’d intended to give to his brother. 

“A Shimada must rely on his own strength.” Hanzo refused to speak, refused to give him the satisfaction. “If Genji were to die to this, it would only mean that he was too weak to survive.”

With his palms pressed flat against the ground so they wouldn’t curl into fists and his jaw aching from the pressure with which he forced the protests crowding behind his teeth to remain unspoken, Hanzo waited, until at last Sojiro said stiffly, "I will send for the doctor to tend to you in the morning," and climbed the staircase to return to his quarters for the night, before he climbed unsteadily to his feet, fiercely scrubbed the tears off his cheeks, and picked up what scattered cranes he could find. After placing them into a neat pile, he grabbed another sheet and resumed his folding, this time suppressing hisses where the paper pressed against rising blisters and shiny wet skin. 

The next day, Genji’s fever broke.


	25. I Need Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree thinks he knows what Hanzo is hiding underneath his cybernetic armor, Genji needs healing, D.Va just wants to do her job, and Mercy needs a vacation.

It was three weeks after Hanzo joined Overwatch that McCree finally mustered up the courage to talk to Genji about his older brother in private, because he had questions about the man, particularly his eating habits. Or rather, their complete and utter absence. 

Sure, the archer would sit at the table for breakfast or dinner, and even participate in the conversation occasionally, but the mesh mask was never removed from his face, no matter how much Angela nagged him about a proper diet. 

He’d even managed to resist Reinhardt by effortlessly directing the conversation to the old man's past exploits in Overwatch. 

Hanzo, as luck would have it, was excellent at shedding attention, which must have come in handy more than once on his travels when his cybernetic suit of armor was highlighted with bright, glaring orange. Anyone who saw him and Genji in the same room would think that Hanzo was cut from the same cloth, except Genji insisted that he had never harmed his brother, and Jesse was inclined to believe him. 

But a lot could happen in a decade. 

“Now, no worries, partner,” McCree assured the startled cyborg when he found him standing over a cup of steeping tea in the kitchen, “I just want to talk.” 

It was late at night, and Genji clearly hadn’t expected any company, because he noticeably stiffened, before cutting straight to the heart of the matter, "I have told you before, McCree. My brother is not like me.”

Carding his fingers through his unruly bedhead in frustration, McCree argued, “Then why does he wear his casual clothes over that armor?” Every time Hanzo was spotted in the training grounds, he was either mission-ready in all of armor or wearing a loose pair of grey sweatpants over it. But McCree kept going, not understanding how Genji could be so blind to something that to him was plain as day. “Why do you think he refuses to take off that damn mask and eat with the rest of us?” There was a thud of flesh on wood. McCree looked down to see he’d slammed a fist down on the table. Noticing Genji’s gaze drop to his clenched hands, McCree forced his fingers to loosen, then laid his palm flat on the table’s surface. More calmly, but with a bitter taste in his mouth, McCree asked, “Doesn’t it remind you of a certain someone?”

Silence followed his words, lasting long enough that McCree began to wonder if the cyborg had no plans on speaking at all, until a harsh breath through a mechanical filter robbed him of those doubts. “I didn’t harm him.” And the way it was said was so quiet and sad that McCree almost wished he could zip back through time like Lena and make it so that this conversation never happened. When Genji spoke again, it was firmer, but no less pained, “That night, though he did his best to goad me, I never fought _back._ ”

The cyborg’s lights flared with the increase in his heartrate, throwing translucent green over the surfaces around him and reflecting off of the tea. It was like no time had passed since they were in Blackwatch together, and Genji was coming apart at the seams. But this wasn’t the past, and Genji wasn’t the messed up kid he’d been when Blackwatch first got their hands on him, so when McCree reached out to lay a heavy hand on the already mostly composed cyborg’s shoulder, he didn’t feel too bad about saying, “Darlin’, just because you didn’t harm him doesn’t mean he wasn’t harmed none.”

He took a step back to give Genji some space while he digested that, and watched without comment as he drained the teabag – Jasmine, if he had to guess by its faintly floral scent- and then gathered the steaming mug in his palms. There wasn’t much in the cyborg that could stand directly ingested liquid, so McCree knew he hadn’t made the tea for himself.

Leaning against the table, McCree asked with a very deliberate casualness, “You hopin’ that tea will get him to open up a little?”

And though the faceplate obscured any expression he might have made, McCree was certain he heard a smile somewhere in those robotic tones when he replied, “One cannot drink tea with a mask on.”

It seemed the cowboy wasn’t the only curious cat on base.

 

_I need healing._

Hanzo winced. The repeated call was grating against his calm. 

Unlike the others, who’d gone ahead to scout out the area, and seemed to be encountering some minor resistance, Hanzo had volunteered to stay behind with the doctor inside the emergency clinic they’d erected in the middle of the desert, so that he could assist her with the preparation of her medical equipment. After stooping to grip the edge of a cot, Hanzo asked, “Does he say that often?”

There was a time in their youth when Genji had cried at every stubbed toe and scraped knee, but Hanzo had assumed he’d grown out of it. 

Once they set the cot down next to its twin, Mercy straightened, her posture unbelievably stressed, while her fingers massaged a crease between her brows that was growing more pronounced with every new request for her aid. 

“When he first joined Blackwatch, we could never get him to admit when he was in need of repairs. He’d just come crawling through the door, barely functional, and only then would he let me treat him.”

“He sounds like a handful,” Hanzo said sympathetically. 

“In a way, I suppose this is preferable, but sometimes…” Startled by the darkness brewing in her gaze as she stared off into the distance, Hanzo took an involuntary step back. “I can’t help but wonder if he does it because he thinks it's funny.”

Hanzo didn’t doubt it, but as to how anyone could be so brave as to test the doctor, he had no idea. 

After discreetly exiting the tent, leaving her to her brooding, Hanzo felt his metal boots begin to sink into the sand and sighed. It was going to take weeks before he was sand-free again.

 

It didn’t take him long to catch up to D.Va patrolling the perimeter in her MEKA, though that was less to do with his own skill as a tracker and more to do with the constant whine of her machine’s hydraulics and the trail of dinosaur footsteps it left behind. 

Once he’d come within range of her periphery, he called, “I take you are not often deployed on stealth missions, then?” It would certainly explain why he’d never seen her on the roster for his own assignments, though the MEKA seemed to also have its advantages. From what he could observe, the machine was built to accommodate its driver in extreme weather conditions, as D.Va wasn’t even sweating inside her cockpit. 

She spared him a mildly irked glance, like a horse acknowledging a gnat, and snuck her tongue out. Hanzo quickly turned his head away so she wouldn’t see him smile. 

While he sidestepped a tall cactus and other desert vegetation in his path, she trudged over it without pausing, her gaze focused ahead of her. “I heard Genji calling on the radio a while back. Is he okay?”

“He may have been clipped in a brief firefight with a local gang, but he and McCree made short work of them. Mercy is probably looking after him as we speak.”

They continued on in silence, with D.Va crushing the native flora with every step she took, even stepping into a spider’s web at one point, but though she grimaced at the webbing splayed over her cockpit window, she didn’t seem overly bothered by it. Hanzo was quietly impressed by how professional her demeanor was in the field, as off it, she behaved in a manner befitting a girl her age, with teasing and jibes and pranks, and a passion for her hobbies that often led to her prioritizing her games over proper rest and nutrition. 

Well, Genji had been the same way when he was her age. 

“Aren’t you hot?” Pulled out of his thoughts by the innocent question, Hanzo turned to see the young soldier side-eyeing him from her seat with a raised brow and a touch of subtle concern. 

In fact, the sections of his armor that touched his organic skin were searing. He was certain that he would have blisters to take care of once this mission was done, but it would not impact his performance, and thus did not bear mentioning. “I am fine,” he said shortly, not wanting her to probe him on the matter any further.

Of course, that only provoked her curiosity more, but just as she opened her mouth to press the issue, the side of her mechanical suit was rocked by a projectile that exploded upon impact, kicking up dust and spewing smoke as the force nearly sent her careening off the edge of the cliffside before she kicked open the emergency hatch and leaped out onto the path, unarmed except for the pistol in her hand. In one fluid motion, Hanzo unslung Stormbow, nocked a scatter arrow, calculated the RPG’s trajectory, and then fired it into the collection of rocks above them. 

“It’s an ambush,” Hanzo growled as the flailing body of a man wearing the Deadlock insignia on his shoulder careened past them. The path they were on gave them limited mobility, which would make dodging any future projectiles dangerous, not to mention that the impact could dislodge some of the rock. Hanzo reasoned that even if he didn’t manage to lodge an arrowhead into the cliff to halt his fall, he’d likely survive, but outside of her suit, Hana had no such luxury. 

Falling back on his instincts, Hanzo gripped her by the wrist, ignoring the question in her eyes at the contact. “Run.” 

As they sprinted to find some cover, a place where they could defend themselves without fear of the ground collapsing beneath their feet, Hanzo glanced back, having picked up on the soft _plink_ of metal hitting the ground, to see three unpinned grenades lying several feet behind them. Thinking quickly, he wrapped an arm around Hana’s waist, plunged an arrow into the rock, and then shielded her as much as could with his own body. The path shivered beneath their feet, rocked and destabilized by the explosion as chucks of it plummeted into the canyon below, but enough of a ledge held that Hanzo never had to rely on his arrow to support his and Hana’s full weight, though it did help him maintain his balance. 

A rock the size of a baseball slammed against his shoulder, drawing out a hiss, and he glared at the edge above them, his gaze searching for any gangsters that might have gotten it into their heads that throwing stones was better than wasting ammo at this point.

Ignoring the painful throbbing the blow had left him with, Hanzo carefully guided Hana off the narrow ledge, then fired another scatter arrow at the boulders while she reserved her pistol for closer targets. There was no sense wasting bullets when she couldn’t see the enemy, after all. And flushing rats out of their holes was Hanzo’s specialty. 

“ _See with the Dragon’s Eye._ ” The world took on a bluish tinge, the edges becoming blurred and undefined as he searched the mountain for their remaining assailants. Distantly, he heard D.Va suck in a sharp breath, but refused to let it distract him.

There. Behind the boulder on their top right were three heat signatures glowing scarlet against the mountain’s cold grey. 

“There are three hostiles remaining.” He glanced at the girl sprinting beside him on the uneven and foreign terrain. Her face was flushed with heat and exertion, the tie in her hair coming undone so that sweat-soaked bangs stuck to her cheeks. But her pistol was held aloft, her lips pressed into a thin line that reminded him more of a lioness on the hunt than a rabbit on the run. Though she’d lost the protection of her suit, there was no doubt in his mind that she was far from helpless. Thus, it was with a teasing lilt that he commented, “Think you can handle it?”

And the grin he got in return was positively wolfish. “Who do you think I am? An amateur?” 

Despite the direness of their situation, Hanzo nearly laughed at that. D.Va held no such restraint, though. She was still snickering when her foot landed on a pressure switch. 

There was enough time for her to realize what had happened, for her eyes to widen in shock and fear as momentum carried her forward, before Hanzo grabbed her by the arm and threw her as far he could manage. 

She hit the ground hard, and was forced to dig her nails into the dirt to keep from rolling right over the edge. There was an unbearable wave of heat, a ringing in her ears, and a shower of dirt and shattered rocks that forced her to curl into a ball to keep the worst of it from striking her head. 

By the time the dust and smoke had settled, she was practically buried in the stuff. Groaning, she shook herself off, a grimace twisting her features because the ringing in her head was killing her and everything hurt. It wasn’t long before she realized exactly who had taken the brunt of the explosive, though.

Staying low to the ground, she crawled to the sudden, jagged drop a few feet ahead, directly where she’d been standing. 

“Hanzo?” Thanks to the feeling of mud coating her throat, it came out sounding like a hoarse croak, but she persisted, and was eventually rewarded by the sight of iron grey fingers dug into the ledge. “Hold on, I’ll pull you up.”

A grunt was all she got in response but then she hadn’t expected much else. If the gangsters overhead realized they hadn’t died in the explosion, there was a good chance that she’d be dealing with the next assault alone, but leaving a team member behind was out of the question, so she grabbed Hanzo by the wrist, and tried not to look down when she hauled him over the edge. 

It was easier than she’d thought it’d be, but it wasn’t until she got a good look at his legs that she knew why. 

There was nothing there, just loose and sparking wires where his knees should have been. And she had so many questions – how did he lose his legs being the main one – but there was no time. Every second wasted brought them closer to a second assault, one which neither of them were in any condition to face. 

While Hanzo focused on righting himself, she knelt with her arms held out behind her, “Climb on my back.” After looking back to see him staring at her like she’d suddenly grown a tail, she snapped, “This is so not the time for your stupid man pride. Come on!”

And he acquiesced, curling his arms around her while she hefted him up on his back. Even without his limbs, most of his weight was concentrated on his upper torso, and she bowed slightly, but instead of commenting on it, merely set her jaw and trudged determinedly forward. Once they’d moved several years without harassment, Hana puffed, “Once we get back to base, I’ll pay you back for saving my life with a coffee. How does that sound?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hanzo replied, “I am afraid coffee is not quite to my tastes.”

Though she was in the middle of navigating a tricky dip in the path, Hana glanced over her shoulder to gape at him, “You don’t drink coffee? What’s wrong with you?” Hanzo shook his head. This was not a conversation he’d imagined he’d be having in the middle of a mission. “How are you even awake right now?”

“...Exactly how much coffee do you drink?”

The disapproval in his tone must have been evident because Hana’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Are you really going to nag me about my caffeine addiction? _Now?_ ”

Resolving to resume this conversation at a later time, Hanzo settled back into silence. Just to be safe, he activated his second sight once more, and scanned every rock, every corner, every crack for an enemy lying in wait, but their luck held out, allowing Hana to carry Hanzo the entire stretch of land to Mercy’s emergency tent. Perhaps they truly believed that the pair had perished, or more likely, they’d found a more pressing matter to attend to. 

Once they were close enough that revealing their survival was no longer a risk, Hanzo called into the comm with a touch of mischief, “I need healing.”

The answer was immediate, _Don’t you start with me, Hanzo!_

D.Va grinned, teeth white against sweat and dirt-streaked skin. “She’s gonna kill you for that.”

 

As it turned out, she did not, in fact, kill him for that, though Hanzo inwardly debated whether or not such a fate would have been preferable to the silent seething she engaged in while she assessed the damage done to his damaged prosthetics. He was sitting on the edge of the cot he’d set up not too long ago, feeling very much like a scolded child as she scribbled down notes and muttered fragmented sentences under her breath.

The dark shadows beneath her eyes spurred a wave of guilt within him, causing him to honestly try to make amends. “I apologize for the inconvenience this has caused you, Dr. Ziegler.”

Rather than softening, her gaze seemed to freeze with an unspoken fury that made Hanzo question if he hadn’t been safer on the mountain with the thieves and bandits. “Do you think I blame you for this?” She managed to say through her teeth, and he scrambled to find where he’d misstepped so that he could come up with the correct response, the one that would calm her ire. 

Her hard gaze flicked over his face, taking in the panic evident in what little she could see of his features, and she pulled away with a sigh. “I don’t blame you for saving your teammate, Hanzo. I just wish you hadn’t sacrificed your body to do it.”

“There wasn’t a choice,” he insisted, thinking of the wide-eyed terror he’d witnessed when Hana stepped on the trigger, the certainty that she was going to die. 

After setting her notepad down on the tray holding her instruments, Mercy collapsed into a chair by the monitor she had displaying Hanzo’s strong heartbeat. With the air of someone repeating a very old and worn argument, she muttered, “Because you believe your body makes you expendable.”

Though sympathetic, Hanzo could only nod his agreement. “I can be repaired, Dr. Ziegler, but Hana cannot. That is an undeniable fact.”

And then the steel was back, the iron in her spine. She leaned forward, “Yes, but you are not a machine. Nor are you a weapon. When you are hurt, it hurts those closest to you, as well.” Then she threw out a hand to pull the curtain so that he could see the teenaged girl sleeping soundly in the chair behind it. There were scratches on her cheeks, bruises on her limbs, and a fine dusting of dirt and sand in her hair, but otherwise, she was unharmed. Only exhausted. 

On the whole, Hanzo thought dragging her into the argument was rather unfair, but conceded the point. Still, he would much prefer she mourn him, if it meant that she would be alive to do so. 

Sensing that the argument had run its course, as neither of them would be changing the other’s opinion anytime soon, Mercy shifted the topic to a question that had been burning at the tip of her tongue since she first discovered the extent of Hanzo’s prosthesis, “If you do not mind me asking... how did this happen?” 

“The yakuza are no stranger to the use of amputation as a tool to teach obedience.” Chuckling bitterly, Hanzo added, “I suppose I never did learn my lesson.”

There was little warning besides a clink of spurs before McCree barged through the entrance, saying, “Hey, Angie, so I think me and Genji got most of ‘em. What’s this we heard about Hanzo needing healing?” Then he caught a glimpse of the patient in question, who’d gone absolutely rigid at the unwelcome intrusion, and froze. 

It’d been a long time – years - since Hanzo had felt so helpless. But without his legs he couldn’t move, couldn’t run or hide, could only sit still and watch as comprehension and horror dawned on the cowboy’s rugged features, after which a second figure pushed their way into the tent, grumbling, “Move, Jesse. There is not enough room in here for you to be standing in the-“ Upon spotting his brother, Genji allowed the sentence to die prematurely. 

There’s the instant before the volcanic eruption, the sight of the approaching tornado or the circling of a shark, all of which carry with them a certain impending sense of doom, and yet none of them could compare to the dread Hanzo felt watching his younger brother stand on the threshold with the tent flap still lifted and resting on his arm. 

With the exception of a subdued whir, no one dared make a sound. Instead, they waited for the lava, for the storm winds, for the snapping jaws and blood in the water. But all that came was single question, uttered quietly and without emotion, “Did I do this to you?”

“ _No._ ”

Staring at the mess of sparking circuits where his legs should have been, Genji nodded once, then turned and disappeared through the flap, leaving Hanzo both speechless and burning with shame. 

Despite his own struggle to process this latest revelation, Jesse tracked his exit with his eyes. He sighed on his way out, “I’ll go talk to him.”

Hanzo didn’t realize he was shaking until a slender hand snuck into his grip, and he looked down to see Hana staring up at him with a solemnness that seemed out of place on her youthful features. He had an urge to tell a joke or otherwise make light of the situation to wipe that sudden seriousness away, but levity had never been his forte, and he feared he would only make the situation worse if he tried to underplay its significance, as he had tried to do with the doctor. 

Ignoring the weight of the doctor’s gaze, he resolved to say nothing, because words weren’t what was needed, not in this case, and instead offered a reassuring squeeze in return. He watched as the tension eased out of her shoulders, and dared to wonder if placating Genji would also be so simple. By all rights, Genji had even less of a reason to be upset, since he had suffered a similar grievance at his hand. To be dealt such a fate could be called karmic – Hanzo had certainly welcomed it as such – so perhaps Genji would not take the revelation quite so badly as he had feared. 

Almost on cue, the cowboy’s rumbling timbre rolled in through the loosely sealed flap, “Darlin’, it’s a fifteen mile trek to the nearest airport through the desert and you’re dressed like a tuna can.” Whatever Genji snapped in response was too fast and heated to make out. “Look, if you’re that determined to go and start another international crisis with the Japanese government, at least let me drive you.”

With a quiet groan, Mercy pressed a palm against her brow. “ _Jesse._ ”


	26. Birds & Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Hanzo had rejected the clan in his teenaged years? What if he was the wild one, and Genji was the dutiful son?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you get when you mix role reversal with a personality switch? Well, hopefully something like this.

_Who clipped your wings, little sparrow?_

_When did you forget to fly?_

Being the heir to the Shimada clan required discipline, and ceaseless training of both the mind and body, which was ironic considering that the majority of the clan’s wealth was unlawfully gained. At some point during his budding adolescence, it had occurred to the eldest son of the reigning _kumicho_ that the amount of effort he was putting into achieving perfection was patently ridiculous when the men and women he was being groomed to lead were all thieves and murderers. Soon afterwards, he came to the conclusion that the clan just wasn’t worth it. 

Instead, he allowed himself to get lost in cheery video game music and bright flashing colors, and concerned himself first and foremost with who had the highest score on Super Smash Bros XVI. 

Game controller in his lap, he was sitting with his legs folded on a couch he’d dumpster dived from the town to furnish the oversized closet he’d repurposed to serve as his own gamer’s den and sanctuary. 

His long hair, which so often fell over his eyes, was tied back in a loose half-bun, and his shirt, an uncomfortably tight tank he’d borrowed from a friend and simply forgotten to return, did little to conceal the telltale azure dragon spiraled around his arm. It marked him as the heir, and after living in Hanamura his entire life, there were few who didn’t recognize him by sight, but his friends thought it was cool and there were days when he could ignore what the tattoo represented long enough to agree. 

He was set with a bowl of chips and a half-empty soda on the scratched-up and battered coffee table in front of him. Enough to sustain him for another three hours, at least. 

Making a big show of ignoring the familiar silhouette of the clan’s second heir emanating disapproval from the doorway, Hanzo reached into the bowl to grab a handful, then sighed as his player character was unceremoniously dropkicked off the platform by a pointy-eared elf. 

Putting the screen on pause, Hanzo mentally geared himself up for an argument, before turning to acknowledge his younger brother, who was standing rigidly by the couch’s armrest with his arms folded crossly over his chest. The clothes he wore were traditional, a forest green yukata for the summer that accentuated the golden brown specks in his eyes, soft and warm as a sparrow’s down. The effect was offset, however, by heavy, furrowed brows and the displeased twist at the corner of his mouth. 

Hanzo carefully bit back a sigh. Same as always, then. “What’s on your mind, Genji?”

Now that he was being addressed, Genji’s expression shuttered, becoming stern and cold as he dropped his arms to his sides, a move that strangely brought the image of an uncoiling viper to Hanzo’s mind. “The Elders have been asking after you. They want to know why you’ve been skipping practice.”

Inhaling slowly through his nose, Hanzo willed his muscles to remain relaxed. He’d expected this question to come up eventually, after all. Ever since he’d been hired to work the night shift at the town’s most recently opened bar, it was only a matter of time. But though his boss seemed determined to work him into an early grave, there was little the clan would not do to him if it meant bringing the _kumicho_ ’s eldest under their control. So though the man could be crude sometimes and wore beanies on his smoke breaks, which was something of a crime all by itself, he didn’t deserve to die, not when he’d given Hanzo a chance by hiring him on as a bartender when no one else was willing to, for fear of what the clan would do to them. 

There was a time when he and Genji used to tell each other everything, but that time had long passed. Burying that regret deep in his heart, Hanzo made himself sound as convincingly flippant as he could when he said, “Isn’t it obvious? I didn’t want to. What more reason do I need?”

It wasn’t the response Genji had been hoping for but he didn’t seem surprised. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in the conversation while Genji alternated from pinching the bridge of his nose to massaging his temples, Hanzo unrepentantly hit Resume on the video game, allowing the bright and happy theme to spew from the speakers. Sensing the attempt to distract him, Genji’s scowl deepened. “Hanzo, you need to take this seriously. You are going to be the _kumicho_ , someday. And when that day comes, you will need the Elders on your side.”

Already fiddling with the controller, Hanzo absentmindedly retorted, “Relax, little brother. Dad's going to live forever.” 

It was an old reassurance that had always worked when Genji was small and still looked up to Hanzo like he put the stars in the sky and the fish in the sea, but now they only served to anger him. Stepping in front of the television so that Hanzo had no choice but to look at him, he snarled, “Do not try to placate me with fantasies, Hanzo. I am not the child you used to carry on your back, anymore.”

Hanzo took a long moment to look at Genji, taking in the shadows lurking beneath his eyes and the headguard sitting on his forehead, despite the fact that they were home and that was supposed to be a safe place. And though he couldn’t fault him for wearing it, it made it harder not to think of the little boy who’d brandished his first armor proudly, and without the weight of knowing that it may one day save his life. Seeing it now, it was apparent that there was nowhere where Genji felt safe. Gone was the boy who had once poked sticks into the koi pond, his cheerful spark of mischief, and his instant affection towards anyone with a smile. 

Hanzo longed to tell him that the Elders couldn’t be trusted, that the clan wasn’t worth his loyalty, but Genji wasn’t ready to hear that, yet. He wouldn’t listen to him, hadn’t listened to him in years. And everything Hanzo had been saving every yen he could spare of his salary for would be for naught. Slowly, Hanzo raised his head to meet Genji’s cold glare, and replied, “You're right, Genji." The young ninja's mouth opened in surprise, but before he could speak, Hanzo continued, "You're a lot bigger than you were then.”

With his cheeks flushing bruise purple, Genji bared his teeth as he prepared to storm out, “I was a fool to think that you would listen to reason.”

This was how things always ended between them now. It was like they were acting out the same scene, and it was taking its toll, to the point that Hanzo almost preferred not to see his little brother, because everything about him was a reminder of the duty he was meant to shoulder. Genji parroted the Elders’ orders and complaints as though he were little more than an extension of their will, and Hanzo was so tired of dealing with it all, and so afraid of his secret becoming known to the Elders if he told Genji the truth behind his absences, that instead of trying to calm Genji down or convince him to stay, Hanzo allowed him to leave without a word of protest on his part. 

He kept his gaze glued to the flashing screen, though he couldn’t see what was going on anymore nor bring himself to care. In his lap, the plastic game controller groaned under the pressure of a white-knuckled grip.

 

It wasn’t long after that their father fell ill. 

The disease ate away at his body and mind, reducing the once proud dragon to an invalid groping blindly at the empty air for loved ones long since lost.

And while he drew his last breath lying in his bed, surrounded by retainers and his sons, there were few who would deny that he died alone. 

Out of respect to the man who had raised them, Genji gently closed his lids so that the dull, glassiness of his eyes could no longer be seen. Then he turned to Hanzo. Due to his own refusal to look at the him for the entirety of the time they’d spent waiting by their father’s bedside in this morbid vigil, itself a result of repeated hurts and anger boiling to the surface, the open terror in full bloom over Hanzo’s features came as a violent shock. 

Their eyes met, something passed between them. And Genji’s mouth opened to call to him, because he knew, somehow, what Hanzo was going to do next, but it was too late. 

He ran.

For once disregarding how others would perceive him, Genji took after his brother, a mix of fear and rage burning and chilling him in turns. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t afford to let Hanzo run away again. Not now. 

He caught up to him on the wooden path bordering the rock garden, where the gravel was stained with pale pinks from the cherry blossoms scattered among the stones. Reaching out, Genji’s fingers just barely brushed Hanzo’s shoulder, but it was enough to convince him to stop, to turn around. When he did, Genji saw that his suit was disheveled, his tie pulled loose. There was little left of his apathetic brother to be found.

Shaking his head in futile denial, Hanzo told him in a harsh and desperate whisper, “I can't lead them, Genji.” He begged him to understand. “You don't know what they do… what they've already done.”

When Hanzo made as though to reach out to him, however, Genji moved out of his range so quickly he stumbled. It was while he struggled to right himself that fury rushed through his mind, polluting his thoughts so that the only thing that remained within him were words edged with truth’s razor teeth, “Of course I know, Hanzo! But how would you?” He strode forward, erasing the distance between them in a blink, but Hanzo was too stunned, too transfixed by the outburst to even think about stepping back. “You distanced yourself from the clan! You abandoned our father, forced him to shoulder the weight of ruling an empire alone!” Suddenly, the rage evaporated, with what remained making it abundantly clear that the young boy who had once looked to Hanzo for protection and guidance had never been entirely erased by the clan’s teachings. So quietly Hanzo had to strain to hear it, Genji said with his head bowed, “You left me.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, because even though their retainers and their servants would be coming to retrieve them at any moment, Hanzo needed time to process and Genji needed to recover his composure. It was while he was reaching for calm that it occurred to him how strange it was that no one had come looking for them, yet. There were no raised voices indicating a search, no soft footfalls on the wooden floors. 

His mind immediately leapt to the Elders, to clandestine conversations behind closed doors… but that wasn’t possible. They couldn’t very well expect him to lose both his father and his brother on the same day. 

Unaware of Genji’s brewing conflict, Hanzo briefly closed his eyes. “They made me kill when I was fifteen, Genji. Fifteen. Nothing worth saving would make a kid do that.” It was right around then that Genji’s smiles began to gain their sharp, sardonic edge, that his skin became a flame too scalding to touch, and he started to take his training and his lessons seriously…

With a curse hissed through his teeth, Hanzo gripped Genji by the shoulders, and looked at him, really looked at him. Every emotion he’d been displaying before had vanished, as though they’d been shoved behind a wall. That wasn’t a skill that was taught. It was gained through necessity. 

“They’ve done it to you, too, haven’t they?” Genji stared at him blankly, smooth and flawless as sheet rock. Hanzo visibly resisted the urge to shake him. “How long have the Elders been making you been kill people?”

He craned his neck to spot the walkways that led to their father’s quarters, hoping to catch a glimpse of where he assumed the Elders were still waiting for their return. Somehow, he would make them pay for this. 

“Do you know what they've asked me to do, Hanzo?” It was the flat and dead tone Genji used that snapped his attention back to the young ninja looking up at him. Realizing his hands were still squeezing Genji’s shoulders, Hanzo quickly released him, and kept his hands raised as far away from the shuriken and kunai hidden beneath the waist of his jacket as he could.

He didn’t move or lower his hands, not even after Genji slowly unsheathed his own sword. It glinted silver in the sunlight, beautiful and deadly.

Taking his eyes off his brother, just as every tutor in his life had advised he not do when faced with a steady resolve and an intent to kill, Hanzo allowed his gaze to roam idly over the courtyard. He and Genji had played there often when they were boys. It would be a terrible shame to stain it with his blood. “I can guess.”

“Don't...”Genji’s hands shook around the hilt of his katana, betraying him. “Don't make me do this.”

“I'm not making you do anything,” even Hanzo was surprised by how calm he managed to sound. “It's your choice, little brother. I've already made mine.” He let his hands drop to his sides.

Though reluctant, Genji glanced consideringly at the wall bordering the courtyard. It was several feet higher than either of them could jump, but that wouldn’t be enough to stop a truly determined ninja. And though Hanzo had been slacking in his training, recently, the reality was that his skills were beyond reproach. If anyone could make that climb, he could.

Now that an alternative had been presented, Genji could feel doubt taking root within him, and yet he could hear the words of the Elders echoing in his mind, “They'll kill you if I let you go.”

Despite the fact that Genji’s concern was entirely warranted, Hanzo was confident enough in his own skills to scoff, “They can try.”

But then Genji looked down at his blade. His shoulders edged forward, bunching around his neck like he was trying to shrink into himself.

“They'll kill me.”

The quiet admission galvanized Hanzo into action, and he took a step forward despite the sharp edge of the sword still leveled at his chest. “Then come with me, Genji.” He waited to see if Genji would respond, then surged ahead. “I’ve been saving up money so we could both leave this place, and I have enough now that we should be able to live comfortably, at least for a little while.” Although he knew it to be true, even had the bank receipts to prove it, hearing it finally said aloud made Hanzo uncomfortably aware of how unbelievable it all sounded. Running his fingers through his hair with a worried frown, he tried, “Look, my point is we don't need the clan. We can find someplace else to live. I can find another job wherever we end up and you can finally go to college, be a normal kid for once.” And he couldn't see Genji’s face, only the stiffness of his back, so there was no telling if his little brother was actually listening or gearing himself up to murder him, but Hanzo decided to trust him, the way he should have done from the beginning. He put a hand on the blade, and said as gently as he could, “All you have to do is put down the sword.”

There was a sound like a choked back cry and Hanzo felt the blade begin to dip. It gave him hope, and then he looked over Genji’s shoulders, at the Elder standing behind him who definitely hadn’t been there before. He seemed to be mouthing something. Hanzo blinked, confused. It was a split second of distraction that cost him. He heard Genji shout out a warning an instant before something cold penetrated his stomach, and he looked down to see Genji’s katana protruding from his flesh emanate a vibrant green mist that matched the lingering influence of the dragon in Genji’s wide and glowing eyes. 

Covering Genji’s bloodspecked hands with his own, Hanzo said the first thing he could think of, “It's okay.”

Soon after, the strength in his legs abandoned him, forcing Genji to catch him before he fell and jarred the sword. The young ninja shook his head. 

“It's not,” he repeated. “It's not, it’s _not_ -”

He placed a hand on Genji’s cheek, and was surprised to find his little brother’s face was streaked with tears. “This… isn’t your fault. I shouldn't have left you… with them." Though it cost him more energy than he could afford to lose, he forced himself to keep going. "I let them do this to you... I'm so sorry.” As terrible as it was that he was going to die, and as much as he didn’t want to, Hanzo couldn’t help but think of how close he’d been to freeing them both. It was so unfair it was practically an insult. 

He stayed awake long enough to hear Genji scream his name as his body was ripped out of his arms and dragged away.

 

Not long after, Genji climbed over the courtyard wall and deserted the clan. He’d managed to convince the Elders that he believed eliminating Hanzo was necessary, though his loss wounded him deeply. And once they trusted him enough to grant him his only wish, that he may have some space to mourn his brother in private, he fulfilled the very daydream he’d had that day and scaled the wall with two kunai in his hands. 

He found work as a mercenary, though it was more out of convenience than desperation, since when he’d left the clan, he’d made sure to take more than a little of their funds with them. No, it was so that he could keep a close watch on the clan. Mercenaries existed on the outskirts of the criminal circle – separate, yet near enough that news of illegal movements and dying syndicates traveled to their ears, as well. 

While Genji bided his time, unsure of what to do with his newfound freedom besides seek vengeance on the very clan that had destroyed his family and any hope he’d had for achieving happiness, he learned how to cook. It was such a stepping stone up from buying microwavable meals at the grocery story that when he finally baked a cake that wasn’t burned black on the bottom or soggy in the middle, he’d nearly cried. 

He also attended online college courses, through which he discovered a passion for game design that led to a somewhat lucrative hobby he could indulge in between assignments. 

It wasn’t easy to form a routine when he was always on the move, but though his daily life was often erratic, there was one day in every year where he could be counted on to be dangerously predictable which, as it happened, was directly what had led to his locking swords with a duel-wielding headache. 

“Woah, you're ripped!” His adversary crowed as they crossed blades once more under the cherry blossoms in Hanamura, in the exact same courtyard where Hanzo had fallen by his hand. “Where do you find the time to work out?”

Shaking with the effort of fending off the swordsman’s inhuman strength, Genji managed a grunted, “You… are the _mouthiest_ assassin I have ever faced.”

But the stranger only laughed. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Then he disengaged to effortlessly leap an impossible distance and height and land nimbly atop the courtyard wall, where he twirled a pair of short blades, each with a curved edge and grooves cut into the steel. “You’ve come a long way to honor a man you murdered, and yet you’re still trapped here. I wonder what Hanzo would say if he could see you now, and know that he died for nothing.” 

Until that point, Genji had been content to merely ignore his goading and drive him off, as he wasn’t willing to risk harming the scattered sakura or disturb the gravel that still retained its rusty red hue beneath the walkway, the very spot onto which Hanzo’s blood had spilled, but at the implication that he had wasted his brother’s sacrifice, buried hatred and grief came rising to the surface, and a draconic snarl issued from his lips. 

With his katana gleaming in the moonlight, Genji charged forward to bound from the boulder at the base of the _sakura_ to the nearest branch, his long two-tone hair whipping around him like a dragon’s mane, and he swiped at the assassin’s legs, but the intruder jumped effortlessly to dodge the blow, and in the same breath showered the courtyard with shuriken, forcing Genji to waste precious time deflecting the projectiles while the assassin leapt down into the courtyard to sprint into the shrine. 

After pausing to yank a neon blue tipped shuriken out of a thick bough, Genji growled under his breath and gave chase, only to find the veiled assassin kneeling at the ancient scroll of their ancestors and the platform upon which the immaculate and untouched blade of the _kumicho_ ’s eldest son rested. “Leave this place,” he demanded, and his grip tightened on the hilt on his katana in an unspoken threat. “You do not belong here.”

To his eyes, the assassin’s full-body armor looked jarringly incongruent to the shrine’s traditional furnishings, a smudge of neon blue and black against the scarlet columns and earth brown scroll, but there was something graceful in his movements as he fluidly rose to stand, and tilted his head to regard him. Something that poked and prodded at memories long left buried. 

The assassin unsheathed twin blades made of black steel. “Neither do you.” 

After tossing a handful of kunai at the intruder, which he evaded with an infuriating casual ease, Genji snarled -“You know nothing about me!” – and charged forward to demonstrate exactly why no adversary had ever managed to fell him. Green mist trailed over his shoulder and down his arm to spiral around his sword as the weapon became an extension of himself, the blade was his fangs and his claws and they would rend, tear, devour anyone who dared stand in his way, “ _Ryuujin no ken wo kurae!_ ”

Tracking streaks of electric blue light, the assassin raced to meet him, and their blades clashed with the fury and power of storm fronts colliding over a turbulent sea, and the metal shrieked and howled, sparks flying at the contact. And though most would have fallen to terror or despair at the sight of the spectral dragon bearing down on them, Genji could have sworn that what he heard through the mechanical filter was a light chuckle. Then an ethereal glow emanated from the lights spiraling down his arms. It spilled on the assassin’s blades before taking an impossible shape, and the assassin roared, “ _Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!_ ”

And a pair of azure dragons with thick, scaly bodies surged to meet his own, but theirs was not a clash, but a resonance. A joining. They rose above their heads, arcing against the shrine’s ceiling, before the assassin disengaged long enough to swing his blades in a long arc that the great beasts followed with no hint of reluctance, and then aimed their points at Genji, whose dark brown eyes widened with unexpected fear as the gaping maws reared to bear down on him, but instead of tearing him to pieces as they would their foes, the dragons merely overwhelmed him with a foreign power that buzzed beneath his skin and filled his core as they rushed through him. There were emotions, feelings, too, but they were immense and old, too much for his human mind to grasp, but when the experience was over and he collapsed to his knees on the balcony, having been pushed back by their immutable force, it was to a lightness in his breast that he could not even begin to understand. 

At his side, on the polished wooden floor, lay his blade, cold and abandoned. The assassin kicked it away, plumes of steam rising from the vents along his torso. Less than a blink passed before the assassin had the sharp edges of his blades pressed against Genji’s throat, and he raised his chin imperiously, “What are you waiting for? I do not fear death.”

And he waited for the painful sting that would finally grant him, if not redemption, then peace, but the stranger merely dipped his head to meet the defiance in his gaze. “Good.” The assassin sheathed his blades. “Because I’m not going to kill you… little brother.”

In an instant, Genji was on his feet, the bow slow over his shoulder unslung and nocked with an arrow pointed unwaveringly at this foe who would _dare_ – “My brother is dead!”

With slow, unhurried movements, the assassin unlatched the visor and the faceplate attached, allowing Genji to see his own image reflected in eyes that were unmistakably and achingly familiar to him. 

“...Hanzo?”

 

“I wasn't going to reveal myself to you, partly because I didn't want to hurt you, but mostly because I was afraid you'd try to kill me again.” Though it was said jokingly, Genji couldn’t help the involuntary flinch that seized him. Despite his best efforts, it did not go unnoticed, for when Hanzo spoke again, his tone had softened considerably, “As fate would have it, though… I need your help.”

Genji averted his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the inhuman monstrosity he’d turned his brother into for long. “What could you possibly need from me?”

Unperturbed by Genji’s refusal to look at him, the cyborg placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, “My friends are fighting to make this world a better place, and they could use your skills.” Ending the brief contact, Hanzo kept walking, “However you may feel about me, I truly believe that Overwatch would benefit from having you on their side, and that you would benefit from the arrangement, as well.” 

Overwatch. That was the organization the Elders had claimed Hanzo had been in contact with. Their fixation with dismantling the Shimada clan’s funds and supporters and the expertise with which they did so had certainly seemed personal enough to suggest that someone from the family was involved.

“And what if, after all this time, what I feel for you is hatred?” The words burst from Genji’s lips, unbidden. Hanzo hesitated at the railing. “You let me think you were dead for 10 years.” 

“Is it?” He sounded genuinely curious, just as he had on those nights when he’d come home from an outing a little too late and a little too high off of life and other substances, to find Genji curled up and miserable on the bathroom floor, his back against the tile wall with his knees drawn up against his chest, with hands rubbed raw and lying open at his sides. He’d wanted to know, wanted to help, but Genji had been too afraid of his reaction to tell him just who it was that the responsibility for the jobs he refused to take fell to. “Do you hate me, Genji?”

Those were the experiences that had shaped his final perception of his brother – a thoughtless man worth little more than good intentions. 

And yet, “I mourned you.”

With a quiet sigh, the cyborg stepped away from the railing, and turned once more to face him. “I know. And I won't ask you to forgive yourself, but I hope you know that what I said that day was true.” A gentle breeze swept through the shrine, carrying with it the sweet scent of cherry blossoms. “I never blamed you.”

Then he stepped back, increasing the distance so as to leap from the balcony to the nearest sloped rooftop, where he landed in a crouch. 

After a hesitation so brief it could be measured in a heartbeat, Genji raced to the edge to train the point of an arrow on the cyborg’s back.

“Then you are a fool!”

Hanzo stood tall, his dark form a stark contrast against the backdrop of the rising sun. “Ha. Is that anyway to talk to your elders? You've grown impertinent in your old age, Genji.” He glanced over his shoulder to glimpse the last rays of moonlight reflecting off shimmering patches on Genji’s cheeks, and visibly relented. “What you decide to do is your choice, Genji. I won’t force you to join, but... I'm not going to wait another ten years to see you again.”

“And what makes you think I will patiently wait for you?”

The cyborg’s head jerked in surprise, taken off guard for the first time. When he spoke again, it was with a tinge of pride that sapped the strength from Genji’s limbs. “Until the day we meet again, brother.”

A swirling cloud of dense smoke engulfed him, obscuring his form from Genji’s sight, and he lowered his bow, already aware of the cyborg’s departure.

Hanamura in the dawn was beautiful, filled with hues of pinks and purple that stained the mountain as the village below began to wake, but Genji didn’t linger to enjoy to the view. Instead, he carefully cradled the blossom lying at his feet, and returned to the shrine to place the flower and a blue-tipped shuriken at the base of Hanzo’s katana.

In the end, he did not know how long he remained, kneeling at the shrine of a man who yet lived despite its dangers, only that his brother had given him much to think on.


	27. Sakazuki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo and Akande talk while Genji makes more work for Angela.

The _Pork Belly Pub_ on the outskirts of Gibraltar was, as the name would suggest, a popular hang-out for bounty hunters, wanted criminals, and general degenerates alike. Some would call it neutral ground, as any fighting inside in the pub would result in a swift expulsion, and a hard lesson in how serious the _Pork Belly’s_ clientele treated its rules. Thus, it was the perfect place for a meeting with a man who had recently broken out of a Numbani prison. 

Soaked to the bone from the rain saturating the thin fabric of his cloak, Hanzo stole through the streets like a thief, furtive and always looking over his shoulder, into the darkness behind locked windows and within the shadows flitting about streetlamps. It took little more than the air of a man who did not want to found for him to fit seamlessly within the pub’s crowd, yet he strode in with his head held high as he made his way to the counter on the far end.

There was only one patron sitting there that night, a Nigerian man with stripes of white paint on his face and a suit that may have been tailored just to hug his massive limbs without tearing at the seams. 

After lowering his hood to his shoulders, allowing strips of dripping bangs to cling to his cheeks and frame his face, Hanzo ordered a small bottle of sake from the bartender, then waited while it was fetched without displaying any outward sign of recognizing or acknowledging the man beside him. 

It wasn’t until Hanzo had poured himself a warm cup of the rice alcohol he'd requested that the man beside him shifted to regard him. “Those legs of yours are in excellent condition. You’ve taken good care of them."

Taking his time to answer, Hanzo took a small sip of his sake, enjoying the pleasant warmth that itched at his throat and chased away the downpour’s cloying chill. “I owe you my thanks. Your company’s prosthetics have served me well.”

Glancing sidelong at the archer’s deliberately impartial tone, Akande Ogundimu hunched forward slightly, pressing his torso against the counter as he reached for a beer that had to be a specialty brew, as it possessed a richness that simply couldn’t be found in the commercial brands. “Is that the only reason you came to see me?”

“It is.”

Silence reigned for a time, though the constant hum of inane chatter behind them never ceased. Before long, Hanzo had finished his drink, and Akande quickly ordered him a replacement, one which was more expensive and of better quality than the first. While Hanzo rotated the clear liquid in his shallow cup, Akande asked, “Do you remember our first meeting?” 

Shortly after Hanzo had lost his limbs, the clan had booked him a flight to Nigeria to meet with the best and brightest engineers in the field of synthetic limbs, all of whom seemed to be employed by a prosperous company under the management of a young CEO. The archer recalled clearly the sensation of sitting on a plane, convinced that the soles of his feet laid solidly on the ground, only to look down to see that the limbs ended in an ugly mess of knarled scar tissue shortly past his knees. 

After the long flight, he’d been exhausted and irritable, leading him to snap at the first well-built Nigerian man that strode into the lobby to attempt to converse with him. 

“You tricked me,” Hanzo replied slowly, as the tip of his finger traced the condensation on his plumb-colored bottle, “into thinking you were a nurse.”

Surprisingly, for his stern features did not much lend themselves to merriment, the corner’s of Akande’s mouth quirked up in amusement. “I did no such thing. I merely asked a few questions about your requested prosthesis and you came to a logical yet flawed conclusion.” 

_Touch me again without my permission, and you may lose those hands you take so much pride in._

Scowling at the memory of his younger self’s fear and damaged pride, Hanzo tipped his head back to down a swift drink, though the light burn was no longer enough to satisfy him. “You thought I was broken.”

“I merely thought you could be improved,” Akande was quick to correct him. 

“To me, it was the same.” 

With his cup drained, Hanzo set about the mechanical action of refilling it. Even after so many years on the run, his movements retained a quality of grace and ceremony to them from the traditions passed onto him when he was a child. It was said that exchanging sake was a sign of comradery and loyalty, that those who did so were bonded until death, brothers in spirit if not in blood. 

The tradition had died down amongst most yakuza over the years, but the Shimada had always been known for keeping the old ways alive, and yet Hanzo knew that he would never exchange cups with the calculating mercenary beside him, for their paths and priorities in life had diverged to the point where neither could sustain the bond without cutting ties with their allies. 

“They’ve lasted you a long time.” Hanzo straightened, aware of the mercenary’s keen gaze roving from the clawed toes of his prosthetics to the joint above his knee where metal and flesh fused. “But ten years… I suspect they will break soon.”

It could have been an assessment of their durability, or it could have been a veiled threat. Judging by his present company, the archer decided to err on the side of caution. As if they were merely discussing the abysmal weather outside, Hanzo replied casually, “Have I mentioned that my brother knows that I am here?“ He left a handsome sum beside his half-finished sake, as was customary in a pub that regularly harbored those with a price on their heads, and scraped back his stool to take his leave. He’d accomplished what he’d come there to do, after all. 

A firm grip on his shoulder stopped him. Hanzo twisted to face its owner, a snarl on his lips, but Akande didn’t so much as flinch. Outside of battle, his calm was like that of a still pool, every ripple in his composure brief and quick to fade. “But does he know who you are with?” When Hanzo said nothing, Akande opened the palm of his synthetic hand to reveal a blinking communicator. “They don’t trust you.”

The device crackled with static, and then, _Ha-_

Hanzo paled as his blood turned to ice in his veins. Even distorted by electrical feedback, Genji’s voice was unmistakable. He must have followed him. 

Akande watched carefully for his reaction, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Join us.” Digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from reaching for the concealed kunai under the sleeve of his kyudo-gi, Hanzo attempted to plan his next move. “Talon would make better use of your skills than Overwatch ever could. And more importantly, you would not have to fear our judgment, for we are all beyond redemption.”

Beyond redemption. The words jumped out at him, repeating themselves in his mind as he’d once spoken them, not carefully constructed in the pursuit of persuasion, but brimming with rage and pain and years of accumulated self-loathing. To Akande, they were a simple reality, but to Hanzo, hearing them was like being exposed to a poison he’d only recently expelled. It also proved beyond a doubt that the mercenary could never understand him. 

To seek redemption, even in the face of impossible odds, was its own brand of salvation. 

Gritting his teeth, Hanzo snapped, “I have received this offer before and my answer has not changed.” Then he leaned in close, fully aware of how easily the former martial arts champion could bat him through a wall, and positioned his body so that none of the pub’s patrons could read his lips when he growled, “Release him now, Ogundimu, or tell me where he is so that I may release him myself.”

“I know you, Hanzo. I know better than anyone what kind of a man you are. These…” he paused briefly, mouth twisting into an ugly sneer, “ _people_ you call companions are like water to a flame. They will only smother you.” 

Before Hanzo could shoot back a response, the discordant sounds of brief scuffle over the communicator distracted him. He bit down on his lip to suppress a concerned shout at several harsh, metallic thuds. 

Lifting the communicator to his lips, Akande ordered a status report on the prisoner, to which Widowmaker responded with her smooth, sultry tones, _The prisoner attempted to escape. I subdued him._

In the background, they could hear Genji say, _It is rude to ignore present company, Widow. Did Talon force you to forget your manners, too?_

There was another blow, as unnecessary as it was vindictive, but it did not stop the cyborg’s flow of taunts, each one barbed and hooked to get under his captor’s skin. Listening to the endless stream, Hanzo’s expression gradually morphed from one of concern to one of confusion, before settling on exasperation. 

However, as Akande had never had the pleasure of growing up with the cyborg, he'd stalled at confusion. “What is he doing?”

 _Has anyone ever told you that you hit like a girl? It is not an insult, merely a statement of fact._

Hanzo suppressed a groan. “Being himself.”

Well, mostly. Genji’s insults and jeers had been much cruder in their youth. On the whole, Hanzo supposed he actually preferred the change. 

A name filtered through the speaker, a name Genji shouldn’t have said, because it was followed shortly by a gunshot and a drawn out hiss of pain. 

“Genji!”

_I’m okay,_ came the quick response. _Though I imagine Mercy is going to be rather upset with me when we get back._

Having had enough of this farce, Hanzo spun to leave. If Genji had followed him then he and the Widow were most likely nearby, and a sonic pulse arrow could give away their position, but… It was a risk. One he’d rather not take with his brother’s life on the line.

“Remove your hand, Akande.” The air grew thick with the smell of ozone as sparks like bolts of lightning crackled over the exposed skin of Hanzo’s left arm, and an ethereal blue flame blazed beneath the surface of his eyes. “You do not have many more to spare.” 

Sensing the danger, Akande immediately released him.“You must listen to me, Hanzo. You belong with the kinslayers and scoundrels.”

“Your pitch needs work.” He attempted once more to leave, this time striding quickly to the door. 

Akande stood to follow him, his longer gait allowing him to keep pace easily. Neither of them bothered to acknowledge how very quiet the once bustling pub had become, or the weary gazes they could feel tracking their movements. “Then what about freedom?” He positioned himself in front of the door in such a way that it appeared almost unintentional, causing Hanzo to bare his teeth at the mercenary in frustration. “You wish to be free of your past, of your ties to both your clan and your brother, isn’t that so? Join us, and you will never think of them again. There will be nothing stopping you from forging your own path.” Instead of replying, Hanzo activated the mechanism in his sleeve that would propel the kunai into his hand, though he kept it carefully concealed in the folds of his gi, exposed only slightly so that Akande could see exactly what he thought of this delay. Finally, the man stepped away from the exit, his hands raised in a placating manner, though the gesture did little to elicit good will, as it was well-known that they were just as deadly as any weapon. “Alright, then do as you see fit. Should you decide to cooperate with us, we would have the backing of the Shimada on our side. But if not, one of our greatest obstacles will be effectively and permanently neutralized.” 

Hanzo’s gaze flicked from the mercenary to the silent communicator resting in his grip. “You would trade his life for mine?”

Lowering his hands, Akande offered him a subtle shrug. “If that is what you wish to think, though I’d prefer to call it an opportunity to reach your true potential.” 

Was that what Talon had done for Amelie Lacroix? Allowed her to reach her true potential?

“You would turn me into a puppet.” 

To be transformed into a mindless doll that obeyed its orders without question. In a way, it would be as though he were returning to his roots. The very thought made him the sake in his gut churn with revulsion. 

“Your tactical mind is your greatest asset,” Akande was quick to assure him. “I would not allow it to be sacrificed for your obedience.” Then, more to himself than to Hanzo, he muttered, “Talon has more than enough pawns to fill the chess board.” 

After a long pause, the tension drained from Hanzo’s shoulders. Refusing to meet the mercenary’s gaze, he nodded. 

Relieved, Akande made as though to clap the archer on the shoulder, only to hesitate at the look on Hanzo’s face and quickly change tactics. “You made the right choice,” he settled for. 

With a low sigh, Hanzo averted his eyes to stare at nothing in particular, as even nothing was preferable to the note of triumph ringing clearly in Doomfist’s words, “There was never a choice.” 

The communicator flared to live just as Hanzo reached for the handle-

_No no no_

He stopped, his attention arrested by the shouting coming from the blinking device in Akande’s palm. The mercenary looked far too unsurprised by the outburst, meaning he’d intended for Genji to listen in. This was a test of some sort, Hanzo realized, and his blood boiled as Genji’s strained pleas grew increasingly more frantic, _Hanzo, you cannot trust him!_

The mercenary may have been many things, few of which were complimentary to his character, but he was also a man of his word. “Unless I do this, he will kill you.” He was so tired.

The response was immediate and came without a hint of hesitation, _Then you must let me die!_

“DO NOT ASK THAT OF ME!” Hanzo roared at the device, heedless of every head that spun to face him in shock. Even Ogundimu appeared surprised by the outburst. In truth, Hanzo no longer cared for appearances, only that there was no way for him to resolve this situation without losing Genji once more. But if he joined Talon, then at least he would live. “…do not,” his throat thickened, refusing to cooperate. Eventually, quietly, he managed, “…you cannot ask that of me.” 

While Hanzo, struggling to recover his mask of composure, wondered if the communicator had even picked up on his words, Akande continued to watch him closely, something unfathomable in his dark gaze. At last, he brought the device to his lips and said, “Widowmaker, let the prisoner go.”

There was a curt acknowledgement and then silence. Hanzo stepped away from the door to close the distance between him and Akande, growling, “What are you playing at?”

The man shrugged, unfazed by the ire of a dragon, “Nothing.” He stepped past Hanzo to open the door, then stepped out into the street, where the rain had lightened to a light drizzle that fell from a cloudless night sky. “It is my belief that, given time, you will join us of your own accord.” He tossed an object into the air, something small which Hanzo caught on reflex. It was the communicator.

With a hint of a smile, the mercenary turned to stride down the road, and waved without a backwards glance. From the threshold, Hanzo watched the imposing figure shrink into distance until it reached an indiscernible size, then sprinted into the night to find his brother.


	28. Dragon's Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the bond between brothers is shattered and history begins to repeat itself, the dragon spirits of old decide that it is time to intervene.

_This night wasn’t the first time their blades had clashed. Growing up, they were each other’s favorite sparring partners, and though the steel of their katana’s had met before, there had once been a joy, a harmony, a unity in the meeting._

_There was none of that now._

_The metal shrieked with each crossing, as both tried to press for an advantage while the painted images of ancient dragons looked down on the conflict from overhead. Words were said that could not be unsaid, each of them fresh splinters in an already fractured and fragile bond. It would be so easy to obliterate it completely._

_All it would take was one wrong step, one well-aimed strike._

_And the dragons watched the brothers bleed in body and in soul, watched their hearts break as they injured themselves with each blow they dealt, and came to a decision._

“You are a disgrace to the clan, Genji.” The words felt distorted and misshapen as he spoke them, as though they’d been placed within his throat without his knowledge, but it was too late for him to think about that. There’s a scarlet sheen on his katana from where he’d managed to land glancing blows on Genji’s arms and shoulders. Nothing serious, but enough for Hanzo to know that there’s no coming back from this. 

Facing him with a pained grimace from the shallow cuts, Genji stood in front of the scroll, his own blade raised and waiting, though he’d only been using it to defend himself thus far. It was an insult. Did Genji not think he would need his full strength to defeat him? Or did he truly believe that Hanzo would sacrifice everything, his honor, his loyalty to the clan, and choose to side with a frivolous spendthrift? Someone who could not even stop wasting the clan’s funds long enough to aid with the arrangements for their father’s funeral?

No, it was time Genji finally learned the lesson the previous kumicho had been too soft, too _weak_ to teach him. 

With an incoherent snarl of pent-up hurt and rage, Hanzo raised his katana to deal the finishing blow, and Genji’s eyes widened at the sight of the blade rushing down to bite into his flesh, having never truly believed that his older brother would seriously attempt to kill him until that moment. 

But before any more blood could be shed, something amazing happened, something that neither of them could have ever imagined.

Just before the katana connected, a searing light interposed itself between the two. It expanded rapidly with gale-force winds, making Hanzo slide backwards on his soles while Genji threw an arm over his face in an attempt to protect himself. By the time the light had faded, the sheer shock of the interruption had dulled Hanzo’s ire, and as his sight adjusted, it became clear that some change had transpired, because the expression with which Genji stared at his arm was one of pure horror. 

There were scales coating his forearm, each of them a glittering and beautiful verdant in the shrine’s dim illumination. But they didn’t stop. They traveled to his bicep, creeping over his shoulder and up his neck as his grass green hair began to lengthen and spread down his spine. Short, carefully trimmed nails grew and hardened into claws. Eventually, Genji’s back began to hunch, forcing him to the ground as his legs and arms shortened into thick and powerful limbs.

With his mouth stretching into a slender muzzle, Genji swiveled his head in wild panic, until finally the dragon’s frantic gaze fell on Hanzo who, in the face of what he was seeing, couldn’t bring himself to move. “…han…zo…?”

It was barely intelligible, but when the only sounds that followed were low growls and a frightened keening, it became clear that Genji had lost his capability for human speech during the transformation. 

As the green dragon, larger than a man and with a maw full of gleaming fangs, snapped and writhed and pawed at its shining scales, Hanzo felt the resentment he’d been holding onto for so long wither away and die, because if there was any one, unquestionable truth in the world, it was that regardless of what he had or hadn’t done, Genji didn’t deserve this. 

Tossing the sword in his hand away, Hanzo dropped to his knees, then raised his head to meet the unwavering stare of the dragon brothers above him, and pleaded with the spirits, “This is my punishment, isn’t it?” There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one, but Genji whipped around to face him. “Allow me to share in his fate.”

Admittedly, Hanzo wasn’t actually sure what he’d been hoping for. Maybe a bolt of lighting, or an immediate reversal to the transformation. All he knew was that as the seconds ticked by, it became increasingly clear that Genji would not be regaining his human form before the Elders sent their messengers to determine the victor of their duel. And what would the Shimada ninja do to a real, corporeal dragon?

Running on adrenaline and instinct, Hanzo decided it was best if they didn’t find out. He ran to the exit farthest away from the distant sound of approaching footfalls, then gestured for the dragon to follow him. “Come.” It refused to move, instead leveling an impressive glare at him. Hanzo groaned. They didn’t have time for this. Regardless, he sprinted back to reason with the creature. “Listen, I know you don’t trust me, but if we don’t leave now, you will almost certainly die here.” 

_And that is if the Elders are feeling merciful_ , he did not add. 

With an irritated huff, the dragon struggled to comply, only to wobble and stumble due to the recent changes in the size and width of its legs. Its tail thrashed back and forth while it worked to adjust and maintain its balance, but there wasn’t enough time. Cursing under his breath, Hanzo reluctantly bent to retrieve his katana. The dragon tensed, watching him with a wariness that was earned, but Hanzo never intended to turn the blade on him. Not again. 

Instead he strode over the entrance, and widened his legs into a firm and stable defensive stance. “Go,” he ordered, despite knowing inwardly that he had forfeited any right to do so. “I’ll cover you until you get over the courtyard wall.” 

The steel’s sharpened edge glinted crimson in the moonlight. Just looking at it now made Hanzo’s stomach roil with revulsion. 

Behind him, there came a chuff, a yip, and a growl, all of which Hanzo was effortlessly able to understand as his brother’s vehement protests, though the exact words escaped him. “Don’t worry about me.” It was ridiculous to do so, anyway, when not five minutes ago Hanzo had been attempting to take his life. “I’ll be right behind you.”

And, of course, now that he’d said it, he actually did have to try to survive this. Though he supposed he should have made that a priority, anyway, as he was currently the only soul aware that Genji was not some mindless beast. 

Accepting his assurance with a sharp bark, the dragon scrambled clumsily on the polished floors to reach the courtyard, while Hanzo blocked the first volley of shuriken from the black-clothed ninjas bearing the Shimada crest sprinting up the walkway. Most likely, hidden under the fabric masks they wore were his cousins, his aunts and uncles, yet when they saw that he stood against him, they immediately reevaluated their assessment of him, from family and future kumicho to potential enemy and obstacle. The shift he’d wrestled with for so long came so easily to them, and Hanzo didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled at being written off so summarily. 

One of the nin pulled ahead of the others, breaking formation to engage and distract him while they attempted to circle around to see what had become of the duel, as was their mission. One swift glance over his shoulder revealed that Genji was still pawing at the cherry tree’s trunk, his claws curling away strips of bark as he failed to gain purchase and sank to the ground. 

It cried out pitifully at the same time that Hanzo pivoted to deal a blow to his adversary’s head with the dull side of his blade, and moved to overtake the others. He raced into the courtyard, his sandals soundless over the gravel, and positioned himself beneath the mighty beast to give its rear a heartfelt shove. 

“Climb!” His lips curled from his teeth. “Climb, you pathetic excuse for a dragon!” 

Predictably, Genji’s head swiveled to stare at him with the most scandalized expression ever seen on a reptile, and redoubled his efforts. Once he was finally able to sink his claws into the bark and clamber onto the bough, Hanzo stepped back to take a running start, when his calf muscle suddenly screamed and collapsed from under him, sending him to his knees in an area rapidly filling with enemies while armed with only the blade he’d nearly used to kill his brother and a pair of ancient spirits he hesitated to use.

He lifted his head tiredly to regard the crowd of Shimada ninja, including the one he’d felled earlier. However, though kunai and shuriken gleamed between their gloved fingers, their katana were sheathed, which likely meant that they intended on taking him alive if they could help it. And while Hanzo doubted that whatever fate would be visited upon him would be pleasant, he found that he was too exhausted to care. At the very least, it seemed that Genji had escaped-

Hanzo yelped when suddenly a pair of powerful jaws plucked him off the ground by the back of his hakama and hefted him over the wall. “Genji?!” At the look of self-satisfaction Hanzo could see glinting in the dragon’s dark brown eyes, despite the fact that he’d very likely just exposed himself to the entirely of their clan, who would now be sent in force to collect his hide, Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to scold him. 

It certainly had nothing to do with how Genji was holding him up with his mouth and could very well drop him whenever he pleased. 

They raced across the fields, kicking up clops of dirt as his claws dug into the earth, and Genji tossed Hanzo onto his back, where he landed gracelessly as his hands and feet found little to hold onto, and he nearly slid off the dragon’s back. Biting back a furious and agonized shout at the constant jostling of his wounded leg, Hanzo dug his fists into his brother’s mane, squeezed his thighs around his hindquarters, and then yelled a warning when a cloud of shafts arced in the sky. For an instant, the moonlight dimmed, only to burst to brilliance as an ominous whistling surrounded them. 

Genji swerved to avoid the onslaught in a move that caused him to lose his grip on the wet ground, and he slipped, nearly crashing onto his side before he managed to right himself. Meanwhile, Hanzo watched the skies and the forest line, occasionally calling out directions so that Genji could duck and weave his way through the worst of the projectiles. He knew exactly how far their family’s best archers could follow them before they were successfully out of range. 

It wasn’t so long ago since he’d been one of them, after all. 

“Genji!” Gripping the dragon’s scales with one hand and striking out with his sword with the other, Hanzo managed to swipe away an arrow that would have embedded itself in his younger brother’s forehead. Simultaneously, he felt a stinging, burning sensation in his right shoulder blade, and hissed. It drew the dragon’s attention, as it twisted its head to look back at him when it should have been directing its full attention to not losing its balance. After hastily repositioning his body so that it covered almost the entire surface of the dragon’s back, Hanzo muttered, “Nevermind, I got it,” which seemed to placate the dragon, as it acknowledged the words with a nod and huff before focusing once more on the path ahead. 

As Genji’s galloping gait brought them to the shadow of the treeline, Hanzo urged him onward, and prayed that he wouldn’t lose his footing before they were safely past the forest’s outer rim, then gave into impulse and cheered when the pines and oaks at last enveloped them, shutting out the moonlight and bathing them in a darkness that promised concealment and protection. There were several loud thuds as Genji trotted ahead, the _thunk_ of arrows sinking themselves into thick wooden trunks, and he swiveled his long neck to stick a lolling tongue out at the castle they were leaving behind. 

Eventually, they were able to find a small cave near the mountains and set up camp. Once he’d dismounted, Hanzo threw his katana onto a patch of dirt outside the cave, then left to search for some dried leaves and twigs he could use to start a fire. Though his shoulder protested oddly whenever he shifted it and his leg throbbed from the kunai that had luckily dislodged from his flesh at some point during the escape, the discomfort was more annoying than anything, certainly not incapacitating. Old tutors and trainings whispered that he needed to care for the wound or risk further injury or infection, but when the morning sun had not yet risen and the night was so cold, keeping Genji warm was a priority over all else. 

Despite his appearance, there was no way to be sure that he was coldblooded, but there was also no way to be sure that he wasn’t. 

When Hanzo at last returned with his arms full of good fire-lighting material, he cast a tentative glance towards the dragon huddled towards the back of the cave, its reptilian body pressed against the cool stone as it stubbornly refused to look at him. Years of living with his brother told Hanzo that Genji was stubbornly giving him the silent treatment, but it was the knowledge that he deserved it, deserved to be shunned and so much more, that made Hanzo feel a million times worse than he already had. 

He cleared a space on the stone floor of rocks and dust, then laid the plant matter in a pile with several sticks laid over the top in a triangular formation, only to realize that he hadn’t the slightest clue as to how he was going to light the fire. On any other day, Genji would have laughed at him. Settling back into a kneeling position with a sigh, Hanzo chanced to look over his shoulder at the dragon and started, “I don’t suppose you could…” The dragon twitched, its long ears pressing themselves against its skull, and Hanzo quickly shook his head, ridding himself of the idea. 

It was a stupid idea, anyway. 

Even if Genji could breath fire, there was no way he would help him. 

Instead of asking for the impossible, he gathered some of the dead branches and leaves he’d found and laid them in the pile beside his katana. The thought of touching it again made him ill, dizzy and sweaty and breathless, but there was little else he could do. And so he reluctantly gripped its hilt once more, then spun with a roar to slam the blade against the cave wall. 

There were a few sparks, just as he’d hoped. And though the sharpened edge was chipped and jagged, it would still serve to make more. He slammed it against the stone, breaking off splinters of steel as his mind played for him all the many hours he’d spend keeping it sharpened and polished, for their weapons housed ancient spirits and thus needed to be treated with the same reverence with which one might regard the upkeep of a temple that housed a god.

Thinking back to those hours now elicited nothing from him, nothing except a wordless lament for all of the precious time and effort he’d wasted. 

After his third strike, there was a smoldering glow pulsing amongst the dried leaves, and Hanzo dropped to his knees to shield it from any moving air and nurture it into a small flame, which he then carried into the cave where he could deposit the catching fire onto the larger pile of detritus and forest scraps he’d made within.

In time, the fire grew stronger, as Hanzo continued to feed it at a steady pace, until it painted orange and gold on the cave’s interior and he finally allow himself to rest, if only for a little while. Someone had to keep watch to make sure they hadn’t been followed, and it very well couldn’t be Genji. 

Noticing the distorted shape of his own shadow on the floor, Hanzo slipped his fingers into his hair to find that it can become a tangled mess over the course of their exodus, with half the forest captured in its strands. To an observer, he must have looked wild, or even like a _youkai_ in his snow white hakama, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Curled over the fire, his cold hands stretched out over the flames, Hanzo quietly said, “I’m sorry I listened to them, Genji. I’m sorry that your anija is so _stupid_.” The last was a biting snarl that ripped from his throat and tore him apart as it left. Digging his nails into his scalp as his eyes burned and watered from the fire’s smoke, he continued to speak, despite not even knowing if his little brother was listening or even cared. “And I’m so, so sorry this happened to you, but I swear to you that I’m going to fix it.” 

Though his vision blurred and his head ached, Hanzo strained to make out Genji’s new form in the meager illumination, and when he succeeded, the first thing he noticed was that Genji was closer than he’d once been. Even knowing it likely had more to do with the heat from the fire than him, the sight warmed him, but the second thing he noticed, a crimson stain on the dragon’s brilliant and shining scales, stole that warmth and all the breath in his lungs with it. 

Clambering to his feet with an uncharacteristic awkwardness, Hanzo wearily approached the dragon, concern overriding his caution, but only just. “Genji,” he said softly, “are you hurt?” When had it happened? Was the injury from the arrows that had dogged their escape, or was it a remnant from their own aborted battle. Either way, Hanzo considered it a personal failure. 

He watched as the dragon twisted its slender serpentine neck to regard the dried and tacky blood with a quirked brow, an expression so human and familiar that Hanzo had to bite down on his tongue to stifle a hysterical laugh. Genji sniffed it, even going so far as to give it a lick, to Hanzo’s disgust and disbelief. At once, his massive brown eyes widened, and he spun to face Hanzo with an expression that, had he been human, would have surely been described as terrified. He pawed at the ground, flicking his gaze from Hanzo, who was struggling to understand the cause of the change, to the cavern floor. Once he tried to follow the dragon’s gaze, it soon became clear exactly what had upset his brother. Pooling by the fire and tracking all over the cave was a trail of drying blood, a trail which led not to the dragon, but to a pool at Hanzo’s feet. Feeling oddly numbed by the revelation, he rotated his calf to see that the puncture wound was still weeping, and then pressed a hand against his back to find his hakama was soaked, and the back of his hand came away glistening and scarlet. 

With his lips parted in wordless surprise, he attempted to take another step closer to the panicked dragon, except his legs refused to cooperate and collapsed from under him. He pitched forward, but before he could hit the ground, a cool muzzle pressed against his torso with a low, anxious keen. It prevented him from falling any further, though with what little strength Hanzo still possessed fleeing him at an alarming rate, the truth of the matter was that it wasn’t so much supporting him as holding him up. 

After trying and failing to blink the encroaching darkness out of his vision, Hanzo stared into his brother’s worried brown eyes, and tried once more to apologize, though for what, he wasn’t sure, and in the end, it didn’t matter, as the darkness claimed him before he could so much as utter a sound.

 

When Hanzo next regained consciousness, it was to a forest full of screaming cicadas and the bone-deep certainty that he’d slept too much, been still for too long. His joints and muscles were sore and complained when he gingerly pulled himself off the cave floor. After catching sight of the sleeping green dragon huddled further within the cave, Hanzo took a moment to take stock of himself, and realized that the bloodied upper half of his hakama had been cut away so that his shoulder and calf could be bandaged with its strips. 

He rotated his shoulder blade to a twinge of pain, but otherwise found it tolerable. And his leg supported his weight with only a subtle tremor, which meant that his wounds had been well cared for and had already begun to heal since he’d lost consciousness.

But who could have cared for him whilst he slept? Hanzo looked around, half expecting to find his benefactor sitting somewhere within the cave. As he looked, one of Genji’s long, furry ears twitched, and his great maw opened with a tongue-curling yawn that displayed each and every one of his fangs. He cracked open a single eye to see Hanzo staring at him, then seemingly settled back to sleep with an exasperated huff that was followed shortly by the dragon shaving a few years off Hanzo’s life when it leapt to its feet with a startled yelp. 

It padded over to him, bumped its cool nose warily against Hanzo’s injuries, and then drew back with a chuff, as though satisfied with its own work. Even knowing that it was impossible, Hanzo couldn't help but venture to ask, “Did you do this?”

Scales rippled in the sunlight when the dragon nodded, its dark brown eyes glittering with mischief. “But how could you possibly…?” It sounded ridiculous even as he said it, and he waited for Genji to let him in on the joke. When he never attempted to do so, choosing instead to plod to the mouth of the cave where he then proceeded to flop onto the earth and bask in the sunlight, Hanzo was forced to consider that a dragon with no opposable thumbs had somehow managed to clean and bandage his wounds…

He decided he wasn’t going to think about it. That way lied madness. 

In the face of everything that had happened, it seemed that Genji had briefly forgotten his anger towards him, for which Hanzo was grateful, if only for the reason that staying on the run with a creature of myth would be leagues more bearable if said creature wasn’t obstinate and bull-headed at every turn just to spite him. They would need to work together if they were going to survive. 

While Genji lazed at the entrance, his tongue occasionally curling in a wide yawn, Hanzo located the arrow that had formerly been lodged deep within his muscle – it was blessedly whole – and set about gathering saplings and supple branches to craft a makeshift bow out of. Though a sharpened katana could determine the outcome of a battle, it was little better than a dull blade in the wild, and Hanzo used it as such, taking a vicious sort of pleasure in destroying the very instrument he’d wielded against his brother in his endeavors to keep him alive. 

There were times when he caught Genji watching him in his periphery, but whenever he turned to look, the dragon was staring off into the forest, watching the bees flit among the golden flowers in the clearing. When he licked his chops, however, Hanzo decided it was time to intervene. “See if you can resist getting stung long enough for me to come back with a deer,” he said as he climbed to his feet, though a grimace belied his boast when his calf muscle seized. He shouldn’t have remained still for so long when he’d carved the bow, his leg had gotten spoiled. “A rabbit would also be suitable to-” he cut himself off at the flat look the dragon shot him. It stretched its powerful front and hind legs, then trotted further into the forest, ignoring Hanzo’s calls for its return, because while his torn and bloodied hakama and black, disheveled hair certainly lent him the frightening appearance of a _yurei_ , he was still leagues less noticeable than an ill-tempered, troublesome, thoughtless and patently ridiculous-looking green dragon. 

As occupied as the eldest son of the Shimada was with pacing and venting out his frustration, he didn’t realize that Genji had returned until a low growl from the underbrush halted his mutterings, and he spun to see a freshly caught buck hanging limply from his jaws. He raised a scaly brow in amusement, and Hanzo faked a cough to spare himself the embarrassment of asking just how long he’d been listening. 

The answer was, of course, long enough. 

Gradually, they fell into a rhythm. Genji would hunt during the day, bringing wild birds and large mammals, such as pheasants and wild boars, and sometimes even the occasional serow or giant salamander, while Hanzo would be responsible for skinning and cooking the meat until he healed, though he sometimes tried to contribute to their meals by sniping rabbit or squirrels from the clearing. 

Once he was well enough that his wounds no longer threatened to reopen, Genji began sneaking behind him while he was trying to focus, a feat which should have been impossible, and whipped his legs out from under him with a swift swing of his tail, sending him to the forest floor in an ungainly sprawl. Hanzo, for his part, wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The dragon’s scratchy snickering at his expense was certainly typical of his younger brother, and yet Hanzo couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t been forgiven too easily. 

Perhaps it had something to do with how on their second night, shortly after he’d fallen into a natural sleep for the first time since they’d left their home, a miracle had occurred, and Hanzo realized what Genji had known for longer but hadn’t been able to convey – that the ancient dragons and guardians of their clan had indeed heard his prayer.

 

Soon after their departure, rumors would spread that said the eldest of the Shimada clan had been spirited away after murdering his brother, and the clan became shunned by their suppliers, clients, and fellow criminal syndicates alike, for the fate of their heirs was said to be a curse visited upon them for the duplicity and corruption dwelling within their castle walls. Since their disappearance, it rained every day over Hanamura, drowning their crops and driving the townspeople away by the droves, further weakening the Shimada. The rain only stopped on one day each year, the day of the brother’s first and final conflict, when they’d drawn their swords with bitterness and hatred in their hearts. It was then that a ghost with a dragon spirit padding at his side would come to the shrine to pay their respects to the place where their former lives had ended, and for a brief few hours, the skies would clear. 

It was on one of theses trips that Genji’s phone pinged with a message from an unknown number. Taking his sweet time because the guards this year were new and ridiculously easy to deal with, Genji thumbed through a vast history of selfies, with the occasional pic of a mostly dour looking Hanzo scattered here and there, to finally land on his most recent video file. Leaning nonchalantly against a crimson column, he watched in quiet astonishment as a gorilla fumbled with the camera, then went on to give a rousing speech about why the world still needed Overwatch. Genji glanced down at his brother to see that he was paying close attention to the primate’s speech, and the images of destruction and chaos that accompanied his plea for the reformation of the once disgraced organization. 

When the screen went blank, the gorilla’s speech having ended on a high note in the form of a challenge, Genji shrugged with a smile playing on his lips. “It’s not like we have anything better to do, right, _anija_?” His grin widened when Hanzo merely rolled his eyes, because that definitely wasn’t a no. Even Mr. Straightlaced could get bored of forever being on the run. 

It was about time they shook things up, raised a little hell. And maybe even made the world a better place while they were at it. 

It ended up being the decision that brought a ninja with a green-tipped ponytail and a dragon to Overwatch’s doorstep. The current members, both new and old, were an eclectic bunch to be sure. There was a Korean girl with pink stripes on her face that was something of a superstar among the gaming community. Tuning into her streams had given Genji something to do when it was his turn to possess opposable thumbs, and as much as he enjoyed his brother’s company, it was nice to listen to a fellow gamer gush and rage over the latest betas in a community that had once been like a sanctuary to him.

And beside the Internet celebrity was an old man with a receding hairline that looked suspiciously like the former commander in a goofy-looking visor. 

And then there was a cowboy. 

An actual cowboy with a honest-to-god Stetson on his head, spurs on his boots, and a belt buckle so garish Genji could actually feel his brother’s hope for humanity’s future shriveling up and dying. “Now I know our dear Winston sent you an invite,” the cowboy drawled, “but ain’t no one said nothin’ about you bringing your pet _dragon_.” 

Grinning cockily at the welcome party, Genji jabbed a thumb at the azure dragon standing with regal posture beside him, “This is Hanzo. He goes where I go.”

His brother paid little attention to the introduction, however, as he was still regarding the cowboy with an expression of disgust that Genji recognized and was happy enough to share. 

While the two men attempted to silently plan their next move – Overwatch needed all the help it could get, but could they really risk such an unpredictable variable? - D.Va fearlessly approached to ask if she could touch him. “I never even thought dragons were real until five minutes ago, let alone had the chance to pet one,” she enthused, and Genji found himself instantly warming to her. 

After directing a quick wink at his draconic companion that drew out a resigned huff in response, he said to the girl, “It’s okay with me. But just to be safe,” there was a dramatic pause, “why don’t you come closer and ask him first?”

With only the slightest amount of hesitation, she ignored the soldier’s and the cowboy’s warnings, darting ahead before they could grab her, and then stepped in front of the dragon, who watched her patiently with a quirked brow and dark, round orbs that glittered with intelligence, as well as something else she couldn’t place. 

Thinking back to a movie she’d seen once as a kid where a boy had confronted a similar creature and convinced it to let him ride it by bowing and being polite, D.Va slowly dipped her head, only to let out a yelp when the dragon slipped its snout beneath her to lift her up off the ground like she weighed nothing at all and then gently deposit her onto its back. 

Once the initial shock faded, she scrambled up into a sitting position and let out a joyous whoop, delighting in the deep-bellied chuckle that shook the back of her great and fearsome stead.

She didn’t notice the tension running thick between her allies and the ninja, or the three shuriken that had appeared between Genji’s fingers. 

“See that?” He said conversationally, in a tone just low enough so D.Va wouldn’t pick up on it. “She’s fine. Now do me a favor, gentlemen, and take your fingers off those triggers.” And as if to drive the point home, the light caught his stars at the exact angle needed to make their deadly edges gleam.

And so, while D.Va marveled at her spectacular luck and showered the rather smug-looking dragon beneath her with compliments, as was appropriate with such a beautiful and noble creature, the soldier and the cowboy lowered their weapon and holstered it, respectively. In an instant, the shurikens had vanished up the ninja’s sleeve, and Genji fixed them with a smile that was positively charming, which admittedly rattled them worse than the implied threat. Later, McCree would relate the whole meeting to Winston as negotiating with a mobster and his crazy blue dog. 

“Do you think you could take us to our quarters?” Stretching his arms, the ninja gave an impressive yawn. “Not that it’s a big deal, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t slept in three days.”

 

They were a strange pair. 

Though Genji Shimada, the second son of a once formidable criminal empire, was friendly enough and adapted quickly to their team dynamics, there always seemed to be shadows beneath his eyes, as though he were always just shy of receiving less than the minimal amount of sleep necessary to function. As a consequence, Mercy prescribed natural sedatives to aid in his getting the proper amount of rest, but though he accepted them without complaint, he showed no signs of improving. 

It wasn’t until the plane ride home from a particularly grueling escort mission that the Overwatch team discovered why the ninja had so much trouble sleeping, as the moment his head began to droop, the azure dragon curled up at his feet unleashed a roar that caused the heart of every member on board to skip at least three beats. “Hanzo,” Genji muttered with his eyes screwed shut, “bro, I’ve got to sleep some time.”

“Shimada, can you tell your dog to be quiet?” McCree grumbled without so much as lifting the brim of his hat. “Some of us are trying to get some shut-eye around here.”

“Keep calling him a dog, Jesse McCree, and I will gladly have him eat you.”

Just as Genji had quickly found a place in Overwatch, so too had his dragon, as Hanzo proved to be adept at distracting enemies from agents in need of a breather, as well as for clearing a path when they needed to beat a hasty escape. D.Va, in particular, became accustomed to seeing the dragon appear shortly after setting her MEKA to self-destruct, as he would stay with for as long as it took for her mechanized bodysuit to reassemble. There was no doubt that he was an effective guard, for there were few on either of the conflict who knew how to defend against his powerful jaws and claws that could cut through flesh and bone. 

Before long, his teammates had borne witness to the ninja in various degrees of irritation, exhaustion, and grumpiness, but it wasn’t until the dragon was injured on the battlefield with buckshot spray in its hind leg that they truly saw him enraged. The ease with which he’d sliced through the Talon forces on that day had been a frightening sight to behold, though it only served to further emphasize what Overwatch had learned very early on about the ninja and his dragon. 

They protected each other. 

Once they landed, and Genji had wordlessly shambled to his room to get some much needed rest, McCree realized with a pang of conscious that he hadn’t seen the ninja eat anything the entire flight back to base. Groaning, he set up a nice tray of tea and sandwiches in the kitchen, then trudged his way to Genji’s door, feeling downright foolish. The poor guy was probably fast asleep, already.

His door, however, was actually open a crack, as though he’d been too tired to even shut it properly before he’d passed out on his bed. McCree reached out to grab the handle, intending to shut it, when a flash of white from inside the room caught his eye. Now, it wasn’t in him to be nosy, but since this was a matter of a teammate’s safety, McCree peeked through the gap to get a good look at whatever was rustling within, and witnessed exactly two things which made him question his sanity. 

The first was an older Japanese man sitting on the windowsill. He was dressed in traditional white robes with long black hair spilling down his back to give an ethereal appearance, though it was offset by the fond expression he wore that dramatically softened his cut-from-stone features. As for the second, there was _another_ dragon, this one with a longer mane and scales greener than grass. In other words, it was the exact same shade of green as Genji’s hairstyle, and the cowboy didn’t believe in coincidences. It was decidedly more playful, too, as it alternated between rolling around on the mattress and kicking its hind legs up at the ceiling. 

Somewhere, there was a sound like helium rushing out of a balloon. It took the Japanese man whipping his head around so that their eyes could meet for McCree to realize that the sound was coming from him, and then the door was slammed shut in his face. 

The next morning, at breakfast, the cowboy barely said a word to anyone, and the others were just beginning to get concerned when Genji shambled in with Hanzo plodding at his side. Upon setting his sights on the wary cowboy, his eyes lit up. Leaning in close, he whispered, “You saw him, didn’t you?” Unable to do much else, McCree nodded from his seat. Settling back with a triumphant smirk, Genji said, “Well, then, I believe a reintroduction is in order. This,” he gestured grandly to his scaly companion, “is my older brother, Hanzo.”

And when the best McCree could muster in response was a weak little wheeze, the dragon’s lips curled back in a toothy grin and uttered a short series of soft chuffs that made the cowboy’s cheeks burn when he recognized the sound for what it was – the sleek blue dragon’s husky equivalent of quiet laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this came from one of my mom's favorite films, which is about a knight who is cursed to turn into wolf at night and his love who turns into a hawk during the day. Maybe its because the irony of their curse appealed to me (or I just really love transformation fics), but I've had this idea ready to go since either the beginning of this series or since around the time Beauty & The Beast came out. Anyways, I'm excited to share it with you and I hope you enjoyed it!


	29. Akumu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an argument with his brother goes a step too far, Hanzo leaves Watchpoint for a breather, but life's never been kind to him before and it's not about to start now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning, there is a poisoning in this one, so if a mention of vomiting skeeves you out, you might want to hold off on this chapter.

Genji knew well how to read the signs of a man who fought with a yearning for death in his heart. Once, that man had been him. He’d acted recklessly, with little concern for the state of his cybernetic body or the sleepless nights he’d forced upon Dr. Ziegler so that he could be repaired. 

Though he had always known reuniting with his brother would bring back uncomfortable memories of the past, he had not realized the extent to which Hanzo would remind him of his previous self. 

Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to maintain his composure when Hanzo required treatment after a relatively simple reconnaissance mission for a bullet he should have been able to avoid. Once Dr. Ziegler finished bandaging the wound and bade him goodnight, Hanzo stepped out into the corridor where Genji had waited to confront him, his body emitting a soft, disarming green from where it leaned against a wall not five paces away. They left together, with Genji leading him into the meeting room, as it was abandoned for the night, so they would not be disturbed, and the result was a rehash of an argument they’d had many times over the first few weeks of Hanzo’s initiation into Overwatch. 

“I want you in my life, Hanzo.” There was traces of anger simmering beneath the deceptive levelness of his tone, and the knowledge that that’s all his brother would hear, not his words nor their meaning, only served to exacerbate his mounting frustration. “And if you could just see past your own ego for two seconds, you would know that!”

Genji plopped down into one of the cushioned, rolling black seats at the long table, pushed aside a pile of maps, then propped his elbows on the table so that he wouldn’t bow his head in exhaustion. 

As he’d feared, Hanzo’s expression closed off like a switch had been flipped. Inwardly, Genji mused that though only his features were concealed, his was not the sole mask in the room. “What did you hope to accomplish by inviting me here?” 

Always so cold. Despite his best efforts to reconcile with his brother, nothing had changed. Finding himself unable to meet his brother’s unfeeling stare, Genji averted his gaze, cursing himself for his weakness as he did so. “I am no longer sure.”

It was exactly what he’d meant to say. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue or an impulsive outburst, which made it all the worse when a crack in his brother’s mask of calm revealed a flash of pain. 

Without a word, Hanzo turned on his heel and stormed out, moving quickly in case Genji attempted to follow, but despite his repeated checks over his shoulder, there was no sign that the cyborg had any intentions of coming after him. 

It wasn’t until the exit was in his sights that he received any kind of resistance to his departure, as he found the former Shambali monk his brother seemed so fond of hovering in front of the door and keypad, making it impossible for Hanzo to leave the base by normal means unless he actually took the time to speak to the Omnic. It was a confrontation Hanzo had been avoiding since his move to Watchpoint for both their sakes. And for Genji’s, as well. For it was obvious that his brother cared for the monk, and past experiences had proven that there was little Genji cared for that Hanzo could not destroy. 

Still, the Shambali was owed a certain measure of respect for his wisdom and for what he’d done for Genji, so the archer swallowed his anger, feeling the burn like a shot of arsenic, and said, “I am leaving, monk. You should not stand,” or float or hover or whatever it was that this Omnic did when his feet ceased to touch the ground, “in my way.”

Instead of doing what he’d asked, however, Zenyatta zeroed in on Hanzo’s chosen form of address, sounding pleased. “You called me monk.”

After pausing to think over their past interactions, which had been short and simmering with one-sided hostility, Hanzo realized that this was the very first time he’d addressed Zenyatta with any of the deference that a man of learning was due, regardless of his make or origins. 

With a sardonic twist to his lips, Hanzo bitterly reflected that his childhood tutors would have been so disappointed with the poor manners he’d adopted in his later years. 

Taking quiet stock of the brass orbs circling languidly around the monk’s head, Hanzo firmly repeated his request, “Let me pass.” Despite there being no other souls around, with most of the agents having returned to their quarters or the living areas after the late meeting, Hanzo inexplicably heard his voice soften. “Your student no longer desires my presence here.” As it turned out, saying it aloud did nothing to stop the churning, burning regret raging in his chest. It was why he needed to leave, to breath fresh air, to cool his temper, not stand in this sterile hallway exchanging niceties with an omnic. 

“My student is confused,” the monk replied, patient and infinitely tranquil in the manner that Hanzo found grating. “As you are.” Already thrown off by the scratched and expressionless faceplate, Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to believe the traces of sincerity and sympathy in the monk’s gentle tones, as the majority of the methods through which he would check for authenticity were rendered ineffective. But just as he moved to sidestep the omnic, having grown tired of this farce, Zenyatta mused, “I see much of him in you.”

It stopped Hanzo in his tracks. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet the pair of angled indentations that passed for his eyes. “Is _that_ why you are always so kind to me?” This was a suspicion that had soured Hanzo’s thoughts since the monk had first approached him. “Because I remind you of him?” He was so tired of guessing motives, so tired of watching his back and looking over his shoulder. If this was what it felt like to be among allies, then he was better off alone, and Genji was better off with him gone. 

What they’d once had was now too twisted, too broken to ever be repaired, and the jagged shards that remained stuck from their skin like blades that could only ever be used to slash and wound. 

As if sensing the dark and spiraling path his thoughts had traveled down, Zenyatta placed a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder, aware that he might resent the contact but also willing to chance it if it meant providing the man with an anchor, something to ground him to the present. Ignoring the questioning glance the archer shot him, Zenyatta said, “I am kind to you because I believe that there is more to Hanzo Shimada than his mistakes,” he felt the archer tense beneath his fingertips, a thousand conflicting emotions flitting over his features, but continued, “and because someone I care about deeply asked that I provide you with the same guidance and understanding that I once provided another when they too had lost their way.”

After burying a spike of irritation at the implied comparison, Hanzo stepped out of the omnic’s reach with a heavy sigh, averting his gaze from the nearly palpable concern emanating from the monk, who he was beginning to learn was much more expressive than his appearance and generally even tone had suggested. 

“I did not pack my things.”

It didn’t mean much. Assassins often trained themselves to leave on a moment’s notice, but Hanzo had grown accustomed to sleeping in a bed, to having a space he could call his own. He wasn’t going to give it all up to flee from Watchpoint in the dead of night like some common thief. 

And for the first time, it became clear that Zenyatta had not been as relaxed as he’d appeared, as his shoulders drooped subtly at the deceptively neutral statement. It was oddly comforting to know that even the wise monk was capable of being caught off guard. To Hanzo’s surprise, though, the omnic drifted several feet to the side, allowing him access to the keypad. 

Zenyatta watched, hovering yet unobtrusive, as Hanzo typed in the 6-digit password. “I trust that we will continue this conversation upon your return?” 

It was spoken innocently enough, but Hanzo glanced down to see the omnic’s slender fingers twitching slightly in his lap, as though he were suppressing the urge to fidget, and Hanzo realized with no small degree of satisfaction that the unflappable sage was nervous. There was no way to be sure if letting him go was the right thing to do, and he couldn’t be certain that the archer wouldn’t take this opportunity to run. 

It wasn’t that the monk had no tells at all, or that his peaceful serenity precluded the existence of doubt, just that one needed to know where to look. 

He felt the strangest urge to reassure him, but then the keypad blinked green and the steel door slide open, and with the limitless space and fresh air fully within reach, Hanzo found that he couldn’t delay another second, and so it was with a grateful nod that he disappeared into the night, knowing full well that his problems would be waiting for him when he returned.

 

There was a small town close to the sea with a dozen little shops and a café that provided complimentary sunflower seeds with every ordered beverage or snack. Hanzo watched from his perch on a large oak tree as an elderly woman with snow-white hair and a distinctive tattoo around her only exposed eye stepped inside, spoke politely to the cashier, then sat down at a table in the back corner. But was it a strategic move to diminish the risk of being sniped from the window or a personal preference?

People watching was something Hanzo had grown accustomed over the years, inventing fanciful tales about the lives of those whose paths would never intersect with his. And yet, this woman had a story to tell that needed no embellishment. It was the reason she had captured his attention. There was something of her demeanor that spoke of frailty, and yet, when scrutinized, it became apparent that the frailty was a façade, a mask to hide the steady gait, straight posture, and keen gaze of a soldier. 

The powder blue hijab wrapped around her head and shoulders suggested that she was of Arabic descent, while the healthy tan she bore spoke of long days spent under a cloudless sky. 

She pulled out a book shortly before the young lady from behind the counter offered her a glass of water to tide her over while she waited for her order. It was a family-run café, which meant there weren’t any servers, only a few kids doing multiple jobs to take care of every occasional trickle of customers. This meant also, of course, that despite her deliberate positioning, the older woman was more exposed to sniper fire than she would have liked.

Or maybe not.

If she were in a crowded restaurant, other bodies would have made it difficult to get a clean shot on her, but what if the sniper in question wasn’t interested in minimizing causalities? 

And it was for that reason that the Egyptian woman with the white braid wasn’t the only sniper Hanzo was following that day. He’d heard tales of the ballerina who’d married the Overwatch agent, Gerard Lacroix, only to murder him in his bed shortly after her rescue from Talon. Some said that she was a traitor, that Talon had somehow turned her to their cause during her captivity, but what benefits could they offer to tempt a former dancer to assassination? 

In the high boughs of the oak, he caught a glimpse of a slender, armored leg, of lavender skin that was no doubt cold to the touch due to a heart that beat at a pace so sluggish it was a miracle she could speak and breath and move, let alone bound from branch to branch to position herself effortlessly and seamlessly in the forest’s canopy. Hanzo could not imagine anyone consenting to the process that no doubt turned her into the weapon readying her rifle not two trees across from him. 

He did not know who the old woman was, but if Talon was after her, then perhaps it was worth lingering to keep her alive. 

The Widow didn’t appear to be aware of his presence as of yet, though it was only a matter of time. Though his upbringing had granted him with a certain lightness of foot, the creak of a single branch would be enough to alert her, as was the way with snipers who worked alone. 

After readying his own bow, slowly so as not to rustle any of the foliage around him, Hanzo watched as she positioned herself solidly on the bough to compensate for the rifle’s kickback, then raised the scope to an Infrared sensor on her headpiece so that she could line up the perfect shot, and waited.

Listening. 

If he was going to save the old woman’s life, then he would have to time this right. 

Below the din of the cicada shrieking in the treetops and the murmur of a dozen conversations drifting up from the streets, was a steady, measured breathing. He recognized the rhythm, matched it, until he could feel the pounding of his own heart begin to slow, could almost touch the steel trigger beneath his fingertip. Synchronized as they were, Hanzo knew an instant before she did when she would squeeze it, and loosened his grip on the shaft of his arrow, allowing it to soar in an explosion of kinetic energy that placed its head directly in the bullet’s path. 

It was impossible to shoot the bullet out of the sky and so he didn’t try, but deflecting it? Changing its course ever so slightly, just enough so that instead of ricocheting through the old woman’s brain cavity, it merely nicked her hood on its journey to plunge into the wall behind her? 

Apparently not. 

In spite the sudden chorus of startled and frightened screams within the cafe, none of which belonged to the old woman ducking beneath the table for cover, the familiar swell of smugness at the completion of a nigh impossible feat swelled within the archer who, if nothing else, had always held his abilities in high esteem. 

It was short-lived, however, as the arrow had given away his position to someone who regarded their skills with a pride that rivaled his own, and he had just made her _miss_.

The ferocity of the glare burning down on him hit his skin like acid and, in an instant of adrenaline-fueled whimsy, he vividly recalled how the arachnid known as the Black Widow got its name. 

She fired a single bullet through the leaves with deadly accuracy, and death missed him by inches as he pivoted on the branch to avoid it, his clawed prosthetics grinding themselves into the bark and wood beneath it. 

“Why are you here, Widow?” He called up to her, hoping to buy himself some time before she utilized the automatic spray from her rifle’s close range mode that would be almost impossible to avoid with such little maneuverability. Real life wasn’t like the television shows he and his brother had grown up with. There were no conveniently placed boughs to catch him should he fall, nor any guarantee that those within his reach would support his weight should he choose to risk leaping beyond her range. 

A harsh, discordant grating of metal accompanied her rifle’s transformation as its barrel sprang upon like a fanged maw. Looking down at the archer like he was the fly that had dared antagonize the spider in its web, the Widow indulged him long enough to reply icily, “To finish what I started.”

“I have read your file, Amelie Lacroix.” The barrel was pointed at his chest. He could try to run, to leap out of the way, but there were branches blocking his escape. Though he wouldn’t have paid them a second thought in any other situation, the truth was he couldn’t avoid even the minimal delay they would cause him. Still groping for a solution, he heard himself say, “You were kind, once.” 

The rifle lowered an infinitesimal amount so that he could clearly see the frown sitting plainly on her face. “And I have read your file, as well.” She lifted it once more, and Hanzo imagined what it would feel like to have his insides pumped full of cold lead. “You were never kind.” 

Bullets erupted for the barrel in a dense cloud that chipped away at the branches and ripped the leaves of the oak to pieces, decimating the location where the archer had been standing, a breath after he’d let himself fall, allowing his prosthetics to absorb the worst of the impact when his feet collided with the ground, though his knees screamed at the sudden jarring pressure. 

There came a soft whirring and cranking behind him, a sound that set off blaring alarms in his mind, and he spun to see a venom mine attached to the trunk. The lavender liquid in the vial that served as its head bubbled and sloshed as the container rotated, then exploded in a burst of green gas that quickly enveloped Hanzo, and though he clapped a hand over his mouth and nose to minimize the damage, it was too late to stop the exposure completely and he knew it. As Captain Pharah’s two-day sabbatical in Dr. Ziegler’s clinic could attest, the poison was engineered to seep into the bloodstream through open pores and wounds. 

Though disoriented by the fall, the rough landing, so many scratches and shallow lacerations that he couldn’t even begin to deduce their cause and severity, Hanzo stumbled out of the miasma, blinking black spots out of his vision. It soon became clear that he was in no condition to run, as it felt as though the muscles in his limbs were melting, and he was melting, and soon there would be nothing left…

But even so, he refused to die with his back turned on his enemy like a frightened lamb. He was a dragon. It was how he’d been born into this world and it was how he was going to leave it. 

Though the movement was sluggish and unsteady, he managed to force himself to look up into the canopy where the bullet that would bring his death awaited him, and bared his teeth at its bearer, fully intending to snarl his defiance until the last, but fate had other plans in mind, as shortly after the Widow lined up her shot, her eight lenses glinting scarlet with reflected sunlight, there came discharge from an entirely different sniper rifle, forcing Widow to temporarily overlook her prey in favor of going on the defensive.

Following the foreign projectile’s trajectory, Hanzo caught sight of the old woman he’d been observing. After the screams and the commotion caused by the Widow’s attempted assassination, he thought she might have evacuated or else gotten lost in the crowd, but it seemed he needn’t have worried. She was set up on the café’s rooftop with her long-range weapon held steady by a platform, its scope pressed against her sole good eye. _Get moving, archer_ , crackled his comm on a channel only Overwatch personnel were meant to have access to. _I have you covered._

He blinked dully, then lurched unsteadily in the general direction of Watchpoint, nearly falling flat on his face with every step that he took. Silently, he thanked whoever was listening that the majority of the citizens had fled, as it meant there were few eyes watching him during this moment of shameful weakness. 

A graze on his shoulder was weeping freely, the ground was shifting beneath his feet, but worst of all was the nameless, faceless fear growing within him, causing his heart to pound rapidly and relentlessly as it seized his lungs, thickened his blood, and scrambled his thoughts. 

He wasn’t sure when exactly the sounds of gunfire behind him faded into the background, or when the rows of off-white European-style architecture became short stretches of forest, or when the forest became rock and a steep climb. He didn’t even know when he’d transitioned from shambling alone to leaning heavily on the elderly sniper supporting the majority of his weight, but now that she was up close, he could see that she was not quite as old as she’d appeared from afar. He yearned to ask her why her steps towards the Overwatch base seemed so strong and sure, why Widowmaker considered her enough of a threat to warrant an assassination with such a personal touch, but his jaw had locked and his tongue felt thick and cottony in his mouth.

“I suppose I owe you my life, Shimada.” She was being kind. Even without his intervention, she would have likely survived. Old soldiers were tenacious like that. “It’s a position I’d rather not be in, to tell you the truth… so do me a favor and don’t die.” 

Had he been lucid he might have scoffed at the request, but as he had directed the entirety of his mental and physical faculties to not falling when a stone dislodged beneath his sole and dragging her down with him, he managed only a wordless grunt, something noncommittal and distracted that could have meant anything. 

She frowned, apparently unsatisfied with his answer, then pressed a pair of fingers to her collar, activating a concealed communication link with a burst of garbled static. “I’ve got your archer,” she paused, as if listening. “He’s in bad shape, Jack.”

After hearing the former commander’s name said with such familiarity, Hanzo finally made the connection between the elderly sharpshooter supporting him and Ana Amari, the Egyptian sniper from the original Overwatch, presumed dead by Widowmaker’s hand. 

He’d been right to think she could have defended herself, then. He’d interfered where his protection was uncalled for and, as always, there was a price to be paid for such foolishness. 

By the time Watchpoint came into view, the front entrance was already sliding open to reveal 76 and the cowboy scanning the perimeter warily, which was fair and expected since there was reported Talon activity nearby, but Hanzo wished they would hurry up with it, and judging by the exasperated grunt from behind him, Captain Amari’s thoughts mirrored his own. At last, they stepped aside to reveal Dr, Ziegler standing at the head of a stretcher. Her normally tidy ponytail was disheveled, as though she’d slept with her hair up, and her lab coat was wrinkled, all of which pointed to a late night, for which Hanzo could only pray he wasn’t the cause. 

It occurred to him then how bad it must have looked for him to have absconded from the premises in the middle of the night, only to return early the next day injured, poisoned, and in the company of a ghost. 

Upon seeing their approach, Ana slowed, the exertion and heat finally catching up to her. Though she was breathing heavily, there was a direct cause for it, whereas Hanzo could feel himself gasping, desperate for air like a man suffocating despite the vast supply all around him. A flash of red and gun-metal gray darted through his periphery. He swung his head to follow it, nearly tipping them both over before Ana gripped his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, steadying him, grounding him. 

“We’re almost at the finish line, young man. Stay with me.” Her tone was both a command and a plea, military and motherly. Unable to reply, Hanzo merely nodded to show that he’d understood. That he was capable of understanding.

Then he was being lifted onto the stretcher, and there were gentle hands on his wrist, checking his pulse.

“His pupils are blown.” The soldier’s gruff observation drifted over Hanzo without impact. Soon, he was moving again, and the unwavering heat of the summer sun was replaced by air conditioning that cooled the sweat on his skin. Normally, such a change would have been welcome, but a chill had already sunk deep into his bones, and he shivered as he was rolled into the medbay. 

He was afraid. No, he was terrified. And he didn’t know why. The fear seemed to have no source. It was everywhere and everything, overwhelming his rational mind and wresting control of his body. 

A rapid beeping – a heart monitor – joined the urgent tones above him, the sound like ice picks drilling into his ears. Without any idea of what he wanted to say, he tried to speak past the rancid fluid rising in his gorge, then turned on his side to spill the inky black liquid on the floor. It was humiliating, but at least he could breath again. 

Until a mechanical hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed, blocking his airway. His eyes flew open to see, not the good doctor working to save him, but the lacerated and necrotic flesh of his younger brother, his face inches away from Hanzo’s as he snarled his hatred with a synthetic mouth full of fangs dyed an oily black…

 

“Help me set up a hemodialysis and a second monitor,” Mercy ordered without pausing to see if anyone listened. The wounded and the ill were her domain, and she expected the directive to be followed without question. As she bent to retrieve three bags of saline solution from a cooler beside the fridge, she elaborated, “Talon’s poisons are designed to react aggressively when brought into contact with any common sedative, so I’m going to try to flush the poison out of his bloodstream, instead. However, since this would proceed much more smoothly if we could find a way to calm him down, I’d like to try something Winston and I have been working on, as well.” 

Though hearing those words from Dr. Ziegler should and would have sent a thrill of apprehension through the archer on any other day, Hanzo found to a much more subdued brand of horror that he didn’t have the strength to care. All he wanted was for this nightmare to end. Every time he closed his eyes, the same red sky replaced the fluorescent lights above him, and all around stretched a burned and barren landscape. Drifting from the crimson sky like ash, the soldier’s skeptical words made themselves known, “Am I right in thinking that what you’re suggesting is trying a new piece of untested technology on a patient who can’t consent?”

A low scoff with a mechanical edge accompanied Mercy’s snapped retort, though Hanzo no longer trusted his senses to know the difference between the real and the imagined, “Talk to me about ethics after we save his life.”

“Hey, guys?” It was the cowboy, though he sounded a little off, somehow. “Sorry to interrupt, but did he have those bruises a second ago?” 

Delicate fingers ghosted over Hanzo’s throat, tracing the impossible bruises forming there. Once she’d retracted her hand, Angela surged into quick and sure motions, moving with a renewed urgency and purpose that resulted in the full preparation of the dialysis and second screen taking place in a nigh superhumanly fast pace. 

Meanwhile, Hanzo stared at the back of the creature now standing eerily still in his Hellscape, its dull and gray silhouette looming at the edge of an abyss that surrounded the island they stood on. It was then that he heard a collective intake of breath that was sharp and strained, and could only assume that Mercy had gotten her machine working. 

What he didn’t want to hear was the hesitant, wounded manner in which Genji at last made his presence known, “Is that… _me?”_

" _ **No.**_ ” Hanzo’s eyes flew open at the rasping malice spilling from behind a bone-white mask, and saw the wraith standing unnoticed and uncontested behind his anxious comrades. “ _ **That’s not it, is it, Hanzo? It’s not Genji that frightens you, but the thought of what I’m going to do to him once you’re gone.**_ ” 

It was a hallucination. It had to be. 

Hanzo knew this and yet the knowledge alone couldn’t keep his heart rate from skyrocketing, which only serves to spread the poison more effectively, more completely. After a lifetime of suppressing and concealing his emotions, he was going to die because of a fear he could not control. 

Even in his current state, the irony was not lost on him. 

Beneath his skin, the dragons writhed as they waged war against the corruption growing inside him. Their energy swept through him like a cleansing wave, comforting, warm, and electric, but not enough to tear Hanzo from the gruesome specters waiting wherever he looked. Despite their efforts and his own struggles, there was little they could do to keep him from sinking back into the trance that had allowed him to see the grotesque transformation Talon had forced upon his brother in this nightmarish vision of the future. 

There was no white in his sclera. Instead, an oily blackness surrounding an iris that glowed eerily with a pale light, like a moon reflecting on the surface of a rippling lake. His face - or what remained of it, since the entirety of his lower jaw was synthetic, while large chunks of his cheeks had been cut away to expose the artificial fangs implanted into metal and organic gums - was largely devoid of any human expression, though Hanzo couldn’t help but notice a hint of resignation and despair in the way his gaze drifted askance. Or perhaps he was simply searching for some piece of the brother he knew in the cyborg’s tortured visage. 

Against his better judgment, Hanzo chose to take a step closer, though he was careful to remain out of range of short-range attacks. It didn’t seem as though this Genji could summon and wield his dragon – perhaps there wasn’t enough of his mind left for the ethereal guardian to recognize – but he was dangerous, still. In the way that all wild beasts are dangerous when they are cornered and wounded. 

When Genji slowly shifted his body, like a marionette turned by the untwisting of its strings, it allowed Hanzo to see the scarlet ports pulsating on his torso and shoulders, the exposed tendons and armored mesh. Then their eyes met, and the monstrous cyborg’s features twisted with rage and agony. With his gray flesh ripping open with a fearsome roar that even now bore too much resemblance to a tortured scream, he charged the archer with his long arms raised and outstretched, ready to tear and slash and rend with his claws and teeth.

 

Dr. Ziegler watched anxiously as the archer’s brow furrowed and sweat began to bead on his forehead. There were pads are his temples so that the dreamscanner could pick up on his brainwaves and convert them into images, but immediately after the corrupted version of Genji had turned to attack, the screen had dissolved into a flurry of snow-white pixels. “Hanzo, I know this is difficult but I am going to need you to listen to me. Is Gen-“ Her gaze flicked to the room’s sole remaining occupant, as Amari had left to have an overdue conversation with their former commander and the rest had been asked to wait outside. “Is he hurting you?”

“No,” came the quiet, troubled response. “He is in too much pain.”

His pulse was irregular, fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. If this kept up, she would have to risk sedating him. This poison was new. There was a possibility it hadn’t been perfected yet. “Try to talk to him.” She glanced at Genji, who had his palms curled tightly around the cot’s railing, his visor staring straight at the dual monitors, one with his brother’s dangerously fluctuating vital signs, as the faster his strong heart beat, the more worrying they became. It seemed inappropriate, somehow, to touch him when he was like this, so she stifled the urge to reach out to him and returned her attention to her patient. “He might still recognize you.”

The response she received in return was surprisingly dry, “That is what concerns me,” though this was a Shimada she was dealing with. 

In her periphery, she witnessed the soft green of Genji’s visor brighten as he moved to wrap his slender fingers around Hanzo’s hand. “I’m not going to hurt you, _anija._ ”

_“I’m not going to hurt you.” Hanzo twisted, pivoting on his foot to dodge a swipe from the claws aimed at his chest. He raised his hands to show that he was unarmed, that he had no intention of harming the cyborg, however changed he might have been._

_But the cyborg redoubled his efforts, snarling, “You’ve already hurt me.” And the potency of the seething hatred in those words caused Hanzo to stumble. Whatever Talon had done, they never would have had the opportunity to do so if he hadn’t destroyed Genji first. Didn’t he deserve to be struck down by him?_

_But vengeance was a double-edged blade. For all the blood it spilled, it harmed the wielder, as well. Killing his own brother had robbed him of his peace of mind and any hope for happiness he might have possessed. And now, when he was so close to the death he’d yearned for, he found that couldn’t allow his younger brother to suffer the same fate._

A noise of distress burst from Genji’s vocalizer at the sight of fresh lacerations on Hanzo’s forearms. Somehow, the dream was hurting him, but it was his body, his face that his brother saw as he fought for his life. “I am sorry, Hanzo,” he whispered miserably. “I never meant for this to happen.” 

_It was time to stop running. Keeping his arms lowered to his sides, Hanzo regarded the cyborg, who stopped as well, his head tilting quizzically at this actions. Before the cyborg could come to a decision on how to react, Hanzo bowed his head, “I am sorry, Genji. If you wish for my death, then so be it, but killing me will only cause you pain”._

_“Shut up!” The cyborg howled, and Hanzo went sprawling when a punch powered by the ninja’s artificially enhanced strength slammed against his jaw. Blinking away exploding stars in his vision, he looked up to see Genji looming over him. “Where was your care for my soul when I was bleeding out at your feet? Where was your mercy, then?!”_

_This was the reaction he’d expected from the man he’d killed. It didn’t suit him._

_Genji bent and metal claws punctured Hanzo’s abdomen, causing him to grunt at the sudden agony shooting through him. Reacting instinctively, the archer kicked out his legs, catching the cyborg on his torso, then flipped him over his head. The cyborg landed hard and rolled across the scorched rock, all the way to the edge. Though he tried to gain purchase by digging his claws into the stone, the momentum was too great, and to Hanzo’s horror, the cyborg pitched over the side._

_Clutching a hand to the wound to stem the bleeding, he ran to the edge to see the cyborg dangling over the abyss. The claws of one hand embedded the stone were all that kept him from falling into that bottomless pit, and they was slipping._

“Hanzo, hold on! Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real! It’s not me!”

_“Genji, hold on! I’ll pull you up.” He gripped the cyborg’s hand and pulled with every ounce of strength left in him, though it strained and tore at the punctured muscles on his torso. The front of his gi was soaked and stained a dark purple, but despite his efforts, the cyborg’s body seemed to grow heavier with each passing second._

_“Why?” With a tone that was tentative and disbelieving, as though drawing any amount of attention to his actions could lead Hanzo to change his mind and let the cyborg fall, Genji stared uncomprehendingly up at him. “Why do you go so far to save me? What changed you?”_

_Hanzo’s hands weres slick with blood now, as they’d once been. The smell, bitter and acrid, made him dizzy but though his strength flagged and his brother’s dead weight threatened to send him tumbling over the edge with him, he stubbornly clung to Genji’s hand, even managing to bite out in spite of the pain, “You did.”_

_After a moment of stunned inaction, the cyborg nodded as though he’d learned something incredible, a small smile looking foreign and out-of-place on his mangled lips, “I see.” Then continued with a hint of warning, “Do not let go of me again, Hanzo. I won’t be so forgiving a second time.”_

_Suddenly, the burden Hanzo was carrying vanished, and he watched, helpless, as the cyborg disappeared into the gloom, a gentle, even peaceful expression on his face. And it should have taken the pain with it, but Hanzo felt all the more acutely now that he was alone. Sobs tore through him, cutting deeper than any knife or blade, and then_

there’s a weight on his chest, precisely on his bandaged torso. He blinked away tears to make out the distinctive faceplate of his cybernetic brother – the true one and not the tortured, demented visage his mind had conjured. 

Genji’s head, surprisingly heavy, was resting on his chest, which certainly explained the weight. He was breathing evenly, and the lights adorning his body pulsed softly with a dim glow. 

Without thinking, Hanzo placed a hand on his helmet, his mind drifting to when they were younger and he used to run his hands through his hair to comfort him after a nightmare. A quiet cough pulled his attention away and he looked up to see Dr. Ziegler smiling down at him with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. “It’s good to see you returned to us, Hanzo. You had us worried.”

The archer bowed his head. “It is good to be back, Dr. Ziegler. I apologize for any trouble I may have caused you.”

With a quiet laugh, she strode over to Genji’s side, “While I appreciate the sentiment,” and placed a hand on his shoulder, “I wonder if there isn't someone more deserving of that apology,” then she bent to give the cyborg’s shoulder a strong squeeze. 

Genji shot up like he’d had a thousand volts injected into his systems, the violent motion jarring the wounds on Hanzo’s abdomen that shouldn’t have existed, and the archer caught a slight flicker of doubt on Angela’s face but it was too late to rethink her actions now. Though Hanzo braced himself, the sensation of Genji throwing his arms around his neck and resting his head on his shoulder still took his breath away, but not for the reason he’d imagined. “I thought I’d lost you.”

It was all that was needed for the wall between them to crumble. Past arguments forgiven, Hanzo firmly returned the embrace, feeling the relieve sweep through him at how solid and present, real and alive and whole his little brother was, “As did I.”

Unbeknownst to them, Angela had left briefly to invite those in the waiting room inside, which led to an internet sensation and a cowboy stumbling onto the touching scene. While D.Va’s remained standing at the door with her wide eyes shining wetly, McCree tugged his hat down, sniffling, “These dang Shimada are gonna be the death of me, I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I get the brothers to hug in this series?
> 
> A-one, a-two-hoo, a three...
> 
> Also, if you're up for it, let me know which sequel you'd like to see next in the comments. Your options are the first Dragon!Hanzo story, an extra for 'lightning never strikes twice', Ghost part 3, the Harry Potter au, the Omnic!Hanzo story, or the Dragon's Punishment. I'll try to post at least three before moving onto other oneshots.


	30. Here, There Be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Wizards-For-Hire Genji and McCree receive a request from the Minister of Magic to deal with brewing unrest in Japan, one of them will be forced to make a choice that will inevitably decide whether he lives with the consequences, or whether he lives at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for your support and for taking the time to vote. I have a pretty good idea of the order in which I'm going to post those sequels in now, so stay tuned for that. Also, the planned last chapter of this series has actually been written! Yay!
> 
> It'll probably be a while before I get to post it, though. For now, I'm shooting for either this Christmas... or next Christmas.
> 
> tw: self-harm and mind control

Despite, or perhaps due to, his careful upbringing and effortless climbing of every social hierarchy he encountered, Genji had never possessed the quantity of patience necessary to deal with bureaucracy. It didn’t matter if it was magical or muggle, it was too slow, too stuffy, too complicated, too _bleh_ for his tastes. 

He much preferred decision-making with nigh instant results, with no checks, no balances, and absolutely nothing to delay or hold him back. It was in the interest of maintaining that lifestyle that he and McCree had started a Wizard-for-Hire business. They specialized in home visits, where they often took care of magical creature infestations like gnomes, pixies, and boggarts, and even had a sizable ad in the phone book.

Unless the Minister of Magic had a literal skeleton in his closet, Genji couldn’t fathom a reason for why he’d be in need of their services. 

Since he’d cast a spell on his hair a few years back to make it change with his moods, it was while sporting a head of canary yellow spikes that he stepped into the Minister’s office with Jesse at his side. Each of them made their way to the leather armchairs in the room without waiting for the Minister’s acknowledgement, since the man appeared to be having a heated conversion with someone on the phone. His pudgy face was a bit flushed, Genji noticed as he flopped into his seat. His pale skin was chafed from where his collar bit into his neck, and on his forehead an even coat of sweat shined in the light of the lamp sitting on his desk. 

The cushions gave off a scent of dust and age that had Genji wrinkling his nose, and he turned to see what his partner was making of their surroundings, only to see that McCree had sunk low in his chair, his long legs splayed out and taking up an unseemly amount of space, and tipped his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes as though the cowboy were settling in for a nap. 

Grumbling came from the walls where dozens of frames filled with past Ministers and staff muttered furiously about the blatant disrespect they were paying the office. It wasn’t the first time they’d suffered the disapproval of a bunch of dithering old men, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, so instead of giving his partner a sharp kick to the shin to remind him that they were sitting in the presence of the most powerful man in the magical community, Genji chose to indulge in some of his more vindictive impulses by instead crossing his arms over his chest and slouching. 

The complaints, which only escalated at the display, elicited a cheeky smirk from the young wizard. Though the Minister’s conversation, of which they were only privy to half, did seem to be winding down, neither of the young men seemed to mind so much, not when they’d found something so amusing to occupy their time with. 

By the time the Minister set down the phone, the pair were so far out of their chairs it was a miracle they weren’t sprawled out on the floor. Rubbing his eyes wearily while he waited for his honorable and esteemed guests to scramble to right themselves, the Minister quietly requested, in a tone of exhaustion that revealed an unexpectedly deep register, for the picture frames to calm themselves. 

“The reason I’ve called you boys in today is simple. The truth is that the Ministry is in need of your assistance.”

Alert now that they had the Minister’s attention, McCree tipped back his hat and drawled, “Now, how could an important man like you possibly benefit from our services?” There were plenty of small pest control businesses in England, and while Genji and his partner were certainly competent at their jobs, and offered a lower price than most, their combined expertise in spells, charms, and curses wasn’t anywhere near enough to draw attention from the government.

At least, not as far as anyone outside their small circle of trusted connections was aware of. 

“There have been rumors hailing from Japan of widespread dissent regarding the long-maintained Statute of Secrecy.” If the Minister noticed how one of his guests grew a few shades paler at his words, or saw how his garish yellow hair shifted to a sickly and faded green, he didn’t say anything, only barreled ahead as though the words had been stored within him, putrefying, and now he was eager to get them out. “Muggles are getting their hands on powerful potions and narcotics, are purchasing in ignorance cursed items that drive them mad in their sleep, and the results, in most cases, have been,” glancing aside, he stopped to swallow, his fingertips curling into a fist,“tragic.” 

“We’d like you to talk to the leader of one of their most influential families, Mr. Shimada.” Having been keeping an eye on his partner, McCree’s head snapped to face the Minister, his entire spine going stiff and straight. “See if you can make him see reason, and if this blatant disregard for the law and welfare of both muggle and wizarding kind persists,” a large, calloused hand wiped at his brow, “…then no one can say that we didn’t try.”

After looking to McCree, who appeared to be mulling over the man’s request with an expression that didn’t yet reveal any clues as to what he made of them, Genji asked, “Why me, though? There must be someone else more qualified for this.” The truth was that Genji hadn’t seen his brother in six years, not since Hanzo had refused to let him return to the clan after his Hogwarts graduation. 

Though outwardly he appeared calm, if shaken, on the inside he was seething. 

During their childhood, Hanzo had done everything he could to keep him in the dark regarding their family’s dealings with black magic and crime, but Genji wasn’t an idiot. He’d heard the whispers, had known from a young age that those shadowy wizards who came to speak to their father weren’t stopping by for some tea and a chat.

What had happened to Hanzo over the years, that he would allow things with the clan to get this bad? Where was he now?

Again, the Minister took a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. He looked over the back of his armchair to stare out the window. Outside, on the sidewalk below, there were wizards and witches waiting in clusters to cross the street, some of whom were couples with their arms linked. One wizard, a tall man with a top hat, spun a quick circle, and grinned as the boy atop his shoulders flailed his arms and squealed with delight. Finally, the Minister’s gaze return to them, and he explained, “We think you’re our best chance of bringing him in non-lethally.” 

Nails digging into his armrests, Genji’s response came out dangerously flat, “You want to arrest my brother?” It should have been obvious that this was what this was all leading to. Looking back, it _was_ obvious. 

Why else would the Ministry have called him? For his expert de-gnoming skills?

“He might listen to you.” The Minister insisted. “The aurors I’ll be sending with you will neutralize him if it comes to that, but we’re hoping that, with your assistance, it won’t.”

“You’re damn straight it won’t.” Genji's eyes flashed green, leaving the Minister to wonder if he had merely imagined their pupils briefly becoming elongated and narrow. “My brother is not some dog to be put down.” Working his fingers carefully through hair that was now bright and scarlet, he muttered almost to himself, “If things are as bad as you say, then something must be wrong.”

Eyeing him carefully, the minister pushed his rectangular frames further up the bridge of his flat nose. “Are you implying that you were aware of the Shimada clan’s illegal activities?”

Impossibly, Genji’s scowl became even deeper and more pronounced. Sitting in front of him was a man who spent his days signing documents in an air-conditioned office, a man who’d come to them for help because he was so far out of his depth, and he would dare to try to turn this request for aid, which they desperately needed, into an interrogation? He wasn’t a criminal, nor was he on trial, but if growing up with the clan had taught him anything, it was that none of that mattered. A Shimada was on trial since the day they born.

“Nope. He was implying no such thing, Mr. Minister. Sir.” McCree was really laying on the southern charm on thick, yet Genji couldn't find it in him to care. He didn’t even notice he’d been pulled out of his seat until a gentle pressure on his mid-back began shooing him out the door, and all the while Jesse never let up with his corny grin, “We’re just as surprised as you, so why don’t ya give us a day or two to sort out our thoughts on the matter and we’ll get back to you.”

By the time the Minister had gathered his wits enough to compose a rebuttal, McCree had already shepherded him out into the hallway and kicked the door closed with his heel. 

The instant they were out of earshot, McCree found an empty cubicle and guided Genji into it. Then he took each of Genji’s hands in his and said, slow and calm, “Alright, partner,” the nails growing from Genji’s fingertips had darkened to a midnight black, grown curled and hard. He watched without comment as McCree worked to pry their points from his palms before they could break skin, “now I’m gonna need you to take a deep breath for me.” Huffing a laugh, he added, “Consider it payback for all those times you’ve nearly gotten my ears cursed off.”

Though his anger at the impossible task that had been asked of him still crackled, Genji forced himself to take a breath. Immediately, a portion of the tightness within his chest began to ease, and the claws growing from his nailbeds retracted a fraction. “You heard what he said, Jesse. If I do what they ask and talk to my brother, they may well condemn us both.” 

“Alright, first off, they’re not going to arrest you for what your family’s done.” 

Raising a skeptical brow, Genji replied, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

And though McCree frowned at that, he made no attempt to defend the statement. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Genji’s shoulders, nodded amicably at the office workers passing by with stacks of papers and phones pressed against their ears - if the new minister had done anything right during his term, it was systematically ending the stigma towards muggle technology in the wizarding world – and walked Genji to the exit, “Then let’s not give them any more reasons not to like ya.”

It came from the side of his mouth, completely undermining the cheery wave he aimed at the bureau as they made their way down the stone steps. 

Once they’d successfully mingled with the crowd, though anonymity was hard to come by when one refused to leave the apartment without his Stetson and spurs, and the other couldn’t keep his hair a consistent color for five minutes, Genji finally began to calm down. They walked in silence for a while without any destination in mind, while Jesse rambled about easy topics that danced around and flitted with the issues they would need to discuss without ever truly touching them, and for that, Genji was grateful. It gave him precious time to think. Eventually, he cut the cowboy off mid-sentence with,“Did I ever tell you why I wanted to become an animagus?”

And McCree shifted gears without missing a beat. After pausing to consider, he replied, “Can’t say that ya have.” His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Guess I always assumed it was cuz your brother specifically told ya not to.”

“Yeah- wait – No, that’s…“ Getting frustrated now that he couldn’t seem to complete a sentence, Genji smoothed back his spikes, took a deep breath, and tried again, “Okay, maybe that was part of it, but the main reason was I wanted to be like him.” A sad smile graced his features. “I looked up to him, you know?”

“Look, whatever’s going on with your brother, I bet he misses you, too.”

“He’s the one who sent me away in the first place. And even if he is, somehow, miraculously happy to see me, how long is that going to last after he finds out that the only reason I’m contacting him after six years of radio silence is because the aurors want me to help them send him to Azkaban.” The more worked up he got, the more sibilant his words became, with each being uttered with a pronounced hiss that made Jesse glance around nervously to make sure that no one had heard before he opened his mouth to protest. 

Determined to get his point across, Genji overrode him. “Muggles have _died_ , Jesse.” And there it was, the ingrained understanding of a system that often prioritized placating the masses over protecting the innocent. “Someone’s got to be punished for it.”

McCree stared hard at him, scrutinizing him for any sign of doubt and finding none, only a steely resolve. Still, it never hurt to check. “And you’re sure you want to do this? No one’s making you go to Japan. The Shimada may be your family, and I’m saying that loosely, but they ain’t your responsibility.”

“He’s my brother, Jesse.” After laying a steady hand on the cowboy’s sleeve, Genji looked up to meet his warm brown eyes, hoping that somehow his friend could see how serious he was about this, how important this was. “Right now, more than anything, he needs someone in his corner.” 

Almost imperceptibly, McCree nodded, then turned his head to stare into the distance with a tired sigh, “Welp, if that’s the case, two is most certainly better than one.” And when at last he looked back at his former classmate and friend, it was with a wide, roguish grin,“Guess we’re going to Japan.”

 

The call from the council for a meeting couldn’t have come at a worst time. This actually had less to do with the timing and more to do with how Hanzo found all of them equally trying and dreaded each one no more or less than the next. 

During and after every encounter with the Elders, he reminded himself that he was, in fact, the leader of the Shimada clan, which naturally meant that they, despite their condescending tones that made him feel so much like a child as he knelt before them, served him. They were his advisors and confidants, not his lords nor his masters. 

And yet, staring up at the row of cold glass eyes looking down on him from their pedestals, he found that the reassurances grew weak and quiet in his mind. If he were truly their lord, if that were truly how they saw him, then he would not be kneeling before them, looking up. 

Digging his fingers into the fabric of his hakama to keep them from curling into fists, Hanzo waited for the Elders to speak with a sinking heart. He was not disappointed. “Have you heard, young lord, that your brother is going to be paying us a visit?”

Hanzo’s breath caught in his throat. He’d heard little of the outside world from the confines of his position, and certainly nothing from Genji. But that was what he’d wanted. He’d pushed Genji away to keep him from finding himself trapped in the clan’s clutches, and yet he was coming back?

_Why?_

If the Elders somehow managed to trap him, to ensnare him in their games and machinations, then everything he’d done, everything he’d sacrificed, would be for naught. 

“- anzo? Hanzo!” He snapped to attention, wary of the consequences that would ensure from briefly displaying vulnerability in this nest of vipers. “Are you aware that he is coming here at the behest of the Ministry? That aurors will be following in his wake?”

“Are you implying that my brother is a traitor?” He didn’t need to ask, he just needed to buy time. Time to think. To plan. There had to be a way out of this. There was always a way, if you were cunning enough to find it.

One had to be a part of the clan to betray it, yet Hanzo had forced him to cut all ties with the family. Except he still bore their name, had even used it in his ridiculous phone book advertisement for the pest control service he’d started with his American friend from Hogwarts. Even if he were to mention Genji’s exile, the Elders need only mention the name he still carried and his argument would be rendered inconsequential. 

“What punishment awaits my brother when he arrives?” The silence that wrapped around and enveloped his question, as though every lung in the room had simultaneously frozen, was answer enough. He lifted his chin, strong, defiant. In this, he would not be cowed. “So be it, then. It is my wish that I bear it in his stead.” And though he had phrased it as a request, the authority with which it was spoken made it clear that it was an order. 

Slowly, an old man with his wrinkled and weathered visage concealed by shadow, lifted a wand from his podium with the tremulous grip of age. The others followed suit, and speaking as one, said, “Would you die for him, Hanzo Shimada?”

Their tips glowed green. Hanzo said nothing, merely curled his lips from his teeth to bare his sharpened canines in one last act of willful rebellion. 

What he did not account for, however, was for the green to vanish, nor for the wands to emit a dull yellow fog that spewed forth and wrap its clinging tendrils around his mind. 

_Imperio._

 

It wasn’t the reunion Genji had hoped to have with his brother. 

They’d run into each other on the docks shortly after McCree had split from him to speed up their search. Immediately after spotting him, Hanzo had drawn his wand and aimed it at his chest, forcing Genji to draw his own. 

They were locked in a stand-off, each of them circling the other while Genji tried to make sense of why his brother would arm himself against him, why he would remain so silent for so long when they hadn’t seen each other for six long years. 

Clearing his throat, Genji tried, “So… I guess I’m kind of acting as an honorary auror right now? Is that what this is about?” He waited, but Hanzo’s blank expression betrayed nothing. Could Genji have been wrong? Could his brother have been aware of the dealings with muggles, after all? Only one way to find out. 

Running his fingers anxiously through hair that couldn’t decide on a color and so flickered through the entire spectrum, Genji raised up his hands placatingly, “Look, _anija_ , the Ministry knows you’re supplying dark wizards and muggles.” Ah, now there was a flinch. “If I don’t stop you, someone else will. And they’ll kill you, Hanzo.” The slight spark from before faded at the threat, forcing him to watch helplessly as he fell back into impassivity. The frustration alone made Genji want to scream. “Or they’ll do worse. They’ll lock you up in a place where you’ll never see the sunlight and then throw away the key.” 

“Tell me, what is trading one cage for another?” It was said with a dissonance that unnerved Genji, a dreaminess that he’d never before witnessed in his brother. Hanzo blinked as though even he were surprised by the admission, and for a moment, the bluish film over his eyes faded, and Genji saw his gaze become momentarily focused, before they filled with a heartbroken anguish that shattered the man’s artificial calm like glass. “Genji…?” He groaned, clutching his skull as he struggled to maintain lucidity. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Hanzo, what’s going on?” Genji watched with growing horror as the blankness from before threatened to overwhelm him once again. “You need to tell me what’s wrong so I can help you!” 

“Don’t you _see?_ ” Goosebumps erupted over Genji’s skin upon hearing the snarl ripping from Hanzo’s chest as his nails began to lengthen and curl and azure scales erupted over his flesh. Sounding garbled now due to vocal cords that were quickly becoming unfit for human speech, Hanzo managed to growl, “It’s too late for that.” 

This wasn’t a voluntary transformation. Forcing an animagus to transform was considered exceptionally dangerous precisely because so much could go wrong without the mage’s own will to guide it. Involuntary changes were known to be painful as well, since the body often resisted based on instinct. And for the first time, Genji fully realized what he was up against. This wasn't Hanzo he was fighting. 

It was the Elders.

Even armed with the knowledge that his brother did not truly want to fight him, though, he had to admit that Hanzo’s dragon form was much scarier than it used to be. Certainly, there was no stuffing him into bags and sneaking him out of dormitories, anymore. Not now that he was about the size of a mastiff. 

“Hanzo?” Genji tried, unable to keep the tremor entirely from his voice as the dragon snarled at him, with fangs the size of his hand bared and drool dripping from its maw. His wand still gripped in his hand, Genji did his best to keep out of the confounded beast’s striking range. Catching a glimpse of his own reflection, he noted with a small, bitter chuckle that his spell had chosen to dye his hair blue with fright. If he survived this, if they all did, the first thing Genji was going to do was remove that blasted charm from his head. And- Woah!

A sharp pivot was all that spared him when his brother tried to do the job for him by removing him of everything from the shoulders up. When the attack failed, Hanzo returned gracefully to the wooden planks, and began to pace, like a lion engaged in a game of attrition with its prey. Realizing he would die if he didn’t at least try to defend himself, Genji waved his wand and cast, “ _Protego!_ ”

The dragon crashed into the shield, snapping and clawing, so close that Genji could reach out and touch him if he were willing to lose a hand. Pearlescent tears rolled down his scaly cheeks, each of them falling without restraint from pupiless and dull golden eyes. Though the weight and power of his strikes pushed Genji to the edge of the dock, Hanzo disengaged with a whimper before either his concentration could break or, and this was only a slightly more appealing option, before he could be forced off the dock completely and made to continue this fight with his transformed brother while also struggling to stay afloat. 

There were wooden columns spaced intermittently on the dock for the fishermen to tie their ropes around so that their boats didn’t float out to sea. Hanzo stalked over to one, having seemingly forgotten Genji’s presence, reeled back on his hind legs, and then slammed his head against the pole in what appeared to be an attempt to knock himself out. “Wait, stop!” Panicking, Genji canceled his shield spell. “ _Anija_ , you don’t have to do this!” There was blood streaming over his scales from a split in his brow, yet he showed no signs of stopping.

Deciding it was time to do something very, very stupid, Genji positioned himself between his brother and the growing red stain on the column. Placing his hands on the dragon’s shoulders, he said softly, “If I let you kill me, _anija_ , will it ease your suffering? Will you finally be free?”

Instead of answering, the dragon transformed into a man with tears coursing down his hollow, sunken cheeks, and positioned his wand directly over Genji’s heart. 

With a small sigh, Genji reflected that he’d rather hoped his brother wouldn’t kill him, but it would seem that no one was getting what they wanted today. As soon as Hanzo’s lips parted to utter the words, his face twisted with unbridled anguish. Dredging up his most reassuring smile, Genji placed a gentle hand on his cheek and said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, _aniki_. Just promise me that you will find freedom after I am gone. That is all I ask.”

There was a sound like a heart breaking, and then, “ _Avada Kedavra_.”

A brilliant green light flared to life, casting a sickly glow over the waters, and fire danced over Genji’s flesh as he experienced a pain like nothing he had every felt before. And then it was over. And he was still standing. 

Pale scars crisscrossed over his knuckles and twisted up his arms. His hands flew to his face to feel skin that felt oddly fragile beneath his fingertips, and then he looked at Hanzo, a smile curling up the corners of his lips because that had been a death curse, that had been the worst of the lot, and he was still alive. 

And there was no film in Hanzo’s eyes anymore, no dreamy distance to his gaze. Genji reached out to him, jubilant, only to frown in confusion when Hanzo maintained the distance between them by taking a step back, then increased it by taking another. “ _Anija?_ What are you-“

All at once, scales erupted over Hanzo’s terrified features and claws burst from his fingertips. It wasn't long before Genji was staring once more at a dragon, though it was lacking any of the aggression from before, and instead seemed afraid. With pointed ears pressed against his skull and a tail that dragged against the planks as he walked, Hanzo slowly trotted away then, when Genji attempted to call him back, he sprinted off the docks and followed the shoreline before disappearing into the forest. Not once did he turn back. 

When Genji made to follow him, however, a sudden sensation of vertigo robbed the strength from his legs. After he crashed like a toppled pillar onto the rickety blanks, the last thing he saw before consciousness fled was a flash of blue among the trees.

 

“You know, I’ve heard that chicks dig scars, and believe me I can see the appeal, but don’t you think this is a little extreme?” Feeling like he was waking up from the world’s worst hangover, Genji cracked open his eyes to warm brown eyes and groaned. “Not everyone can take a hit of dark magic like that and live to tell the tale,” McCree continued, gauging his reaction. “You sure are one lucky son of a gun, Shimada.” 

Except that wasn’t true. Hanzo had never wanted him dead. He’d never wanted to hurt him. And now if Genji didn’t do something, he would be hunted for it. By both the Shimada clan and the aurors. 

After struggling to find his feet, Genji used his wand to cut a small incision on the palm of his hand - McCree stood up in alarm, “What do you think you’re doing?!” - and allowed the blood to pour over the dock until he was satisfied. 

Once he'd finished cauterizing the wound and wrapping it with a torn off piece of his shirt, Genji replied, “Letting them think we killed each other.” He gestured for McCree to get behind him, which the cowboy wasted no time in doing, then cast a blasting curse on the dock, sending up pieces of burning, blackened wood and an explosion of steam into the air. As they walked off the dock and onto the beach once more, Genji flashed McCree a fanged smile. “Come on,” vibrant green scales dusted his cheekbones as he broke into a run, “let’s go catch us a dragon.”


	31. yurushite kure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being taken and experimented on by Talon, Hanzo has a few new features and some trouble adjusting, but that doesn't mean Genji is willing to let him hide away from the world forever. (Sequel to _Mata Ashita_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yurushite kure - please forgive me
> 
> okinasai - wake up!
> 
> So, small change of plans, I've decided to complete the Dragon!Hanzo sequel first. This has less to do with any legitimate reasoning and more to do with me getting excited when I pulled up the document and realised that there was already 2k written down for me to work with. 
> 
> In any case, I think you're going to like this last part, and I really hope you do.

It became a routine for them.

Every morning, Genji entered Hanzo’s room to rouse him for breakfast, and if, at first, he greeted him with snaps and snarls, his hackles raised as though prepared for an assault, then Genji patiently prompted him with memories and stories, often removing his visor so Hanzo could clearly view his face, see his scars, until something he said or did triggered a flood of recollection, and it was his brother - a man, not a beast - who sat before him. 

Over time, those mornings grew more and more infrequent, as Hanzo grew accustomed to his altered appearance, though it took a significant amount of coaxing, as did convincing him to draw his bow once again. Never in Genji’s life did he ever imagine that Hanzo, the top archer in the Shimada clan, would one day refuse to draw a bow.

Though Hanzo insisted upon being pressed that he did not need a bow to do battle, he also refused to wield a sword, leaving his claws as his sole weapon, which was an arrangement that not a single soul in Overwatch was comfortable with. Tearing apart men with his bare hands would do the former archer’s mental health no favors, though some disagreed with it out of pity for their enemies. In their minds, not even the deadliest of their foes deserved to be rent apart by the sharpened claws of a dragon. 

Those who had seen his carnage before also recalled the more feral, confused state he’d been brought into the compound with, the effort they’d expended every day to guide him back to sanity. Though his skills would almost certainly be an asset, they could not afford the risk of setting off a relapse. 

There was a tentative balance regarding the archer at Watchpoint, kept between those who merely felt intimidated by Hanzo’s unsettling beast-like appearance, a common sentiment shared among the novice members which his prickly and withdrawn demeanor merely exasperated, and those who sympathized with him, but believed that the potential of his being a sleeper agent or a spy was too great for them to ever call him a comrade. “Remember Amelie,” they said, as if those who’d known her could ever forget. 

To ease some of the tension, Morrison agreed to appoint a monitor to the former captive. And if that monitor, more often than not, was his brother, who wished to remain with him during his recovery, regardless, than he expected there to be no cause for complaint from any of the various parties, and when confronted, told them as much. 

Genji understood that the ex-Commander was taking most of the heat from those in Overwatch who suspected that Hanzo was either compromised or too wild to be trusted, and was loath to ask for more from a man who was already doing everything within his power, but after weeks of walls and ceilings, Hanzo needed a change of scenery. More than that, he needed an outlet. Though he was doing his best not to show it, the frustration of remaining stationary and inactive for so long was becoming apparent in his conversations with those younger members of Overwatch who so often sought him out. 

Their exuberance and indifference to his transformation made them tolerable, if not entirely welcome company. In any case, he made little to no effort to curb their enthusiasm, seeming more comfortable with their presence than with their predecessors. It was easier for him to sit back and allow himself to become lost in their energy, to let their harmless chatter wash over him without any fear of subtle barbs or thinly veiled suspicion. 

More and more often, however, simple words tended to slip his mind when he ventured to converse, leaving him dangling in the middle of a comment regarding the new single Lucio had urged him to sample, or on the video game D. Va was currently obsessing over. To put it frankly, it embarrassed him. Though the young ones’ opinion of him remain unchanged – never once did they regard him as though he were damaged or broken - Hanzo was convinced that his lapses, as they increased in frequency, would eventually lead to him losing this small bastion of acceptance that he had managed to find. This naturally led to more mistakes, until his words degenerated into deep, frustrated growls. 

He would often regain the words he’d lost, if given time, but Hanzo was never one for patience. Despite their protests, Hanzo would quickly abandon their company to recover in the privacy of his quarters, where he stewed as he paced several steps back and forth, a distance roughly the width of the average cell. Unless he resorted to scavenging in the kitchen, there was no manner of sustenance to be had if he did not bury his wounded pride and resume his interactions with the others, but there was something about how little choice he had in the matter that rubbed Genji the wrong way. 

Anywhere, even the den of your allies, could be a prison, as long as you were never allowed to leave.

Ever since his retrieval, Hanzo had chosen to dress himself in casual and loose yukatas. The coarser material did not tear so easily as silk when he pulled the fabric over his horns. However, for a man who had once been so fastidious in the care of his appearance, he made no effort to wear the garment properly. It slid carelessly off his shoulders, revealing his Shimada tattoos and scaled chest. While it wasn't unusual for Hanzo to wear his clothes loose, it usually served a pragmatic purpose. For instance, drawing back a bowstring and firing an arrow were much simpler tasks without any fabric to hinder the fluidity of the movement, but Hanzo hadn’t worn a quiver in weeks. 

Not since his first disastrous attempt to fire an arrow had led to the unintentional snapping of Storm Bow’s string. “It is a sign,” he’d said with a defeated sigh, and had refused to draw it since.

But Genji had not spent months attempting to find and free his brother so that he could allow himself to wither away behind the bars of a more comfortable cage. 

With that in mind, he concealed himself within the shadows outside the Overwatch control center, internally perfecting his argument as he waited for the previous Commander to wrap up the meeting he was conducting. Once Morrison finally did step into the hallway, Genji silently trailed him, falling into step behind him as though he were the man’s own shadow. He stopped in his tracks once the soldier paused, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the windowless, white hallway. He tilted his head, listening. “Alright, Shimada,” Morrison announced gruffly, “out with it. I know you’re there.” 

With a quietly amused chuckle, Genji stepped away from the side of the wall he’d pressed himself against and out into the open. “How is it that you sensed my presence, Commander?”

“I’d been expecting you to come around for a talk for a few days now. It’s about your brother, right?”

“He’s been here for weeks, Morrison!” Throwing a cybernetic hand out to gesture to the sunlight streaming through the window, Genji told him with an undercurrent of emotion roiling beneath his normally subdued tones, “You cannot keep him trapped within this building forever.” 

Morrison stiffened, still unused to being spoken to as though he were some ensign to be ordered around. Then he took a breath, forcing his muscles to relax as he mentally checked that mindset. Instead of acting on his first impulse, which was to aggressively defend his own decisions, a hold over from the old days, he simply told Genji the truth - that his brother still hadn’t recovered. His pointed ears still twitched in agitation whenever the noise level at the base grew too high, his slitted pupils still tracked movement as though anticipating that they might turn on him at any moment. Morrison doubted the man even realized he was still doing it. 

Neither of them mentioned that he would likely never recover fully.

Locked up, experimented on, and treated like an animal. Though Morrison may have had his doubts about the man, there was no part of him that believed he’d had it coming. All he had to do was take one look at the way the brothers looked at each and, even now, instinctively sought each other out for encouragement and reassurance, to know that their bond had survived an ordeal that would shatter most. It may have been broken, thinning and frayed at the edges, but they were rebuilding, little by little. 

The very fact that the cyborg was standing in front of him now, petitioning for Hanzo’s freedom when the man himself maintained silence on the issue, spoke volumes. 

Morrison watched calculatingly as the ninja seemed to struggle for a moment. “I fear for him.” The admission wasn’t exactly the shocker of the century but the soldier held his tongue. “If he remains here without ever stepping foot beyond these walls, then how will he ever truly heal?”

It was a fair question.

The problem was that Hanzo wasn’t his brother. There was no guarantee that they could send him off on an all expenses paid trip to Nepal and he’d come back with a shiny new attitude and his own Omnic teacher in tow. Chances were good that if they shipped him over to the Shambali in a crate, it’d take every monk in the temple just to get the stubborn idiot out of the box. “Does he even want to leave?”

“If he does not, then that is exactly why he must.”

Frowning, the soldier considered that. Hanzo was accustomed to being imprisoned. It wasn’t simply a matter of being introverted, as the small space was familiar to him now, even comforting. It was conditioning wrapped up with coping mechanisms, both of which would only strengthen their hold on him over time. “Alright, I see your point. But he carries a bow out there or it’s no deal. Too many of my people won’t go within five feet of the man, already. The last thing I need is for him to come waltzing through the front door with blood in his teeth.”

Though he couldn’t see Genji grimace beneath his mask, he knew the cyborg well enough to recognize a flinch when he saw one. “He will also continue to be monitored. I trust that you are up to the task?”

If Morrison had learned anything – and he liked to think that he wasn’t entirely dense –it was that they could not allow their judgment to be clouded by suspicion and fear, especially fear of their own. Overwatch was created in the hopes of subduing those who would lock a man up for months on end, not to emulate them. Even so, that did not mean Morrison believed in trusting blindly. Yes, confining Hanzo to Watchpoint after the man’s experience with Talon was borderline inhumane, but that didn’t mean the possibility of embedded, latent programming was zero. The more you felt for Talon’s victims, the more your heart bled for them, the more they could be turned against you. 

And so, it was as the cyborg bowed his head in gratitude, his cybernetic form already taut with the anticipation of telling his brother the good news, that Morrison resolved to he wait, and watch, and see how this played out. And then, once all the pieces had fallen into place, he would do what had to be done.

 

One could say that the fluctuating state of D.Va’s quarters was due to the multifaceted nature of the girl herself. Though she had a tendency to stream through the night, powered on nothing but the fumes of sodas and energy bars past, there was no denying the crispness with which she folded her pink sheets over her twin-sized mattress, or the precision with which she dropped clothes into her laundry basket. Beneath the superficial squalor of the caffeine addict’s latest all-nighter was a military-esque discipline, and beneath that, was a fun-loving teenaged girl. 

When Genji stepped into her quarters, she and Lucio were both seated with their legs crossed on the floor, a game controller in their laps while they focused on outdoing the other on the pixelated racetrack their avatars traversed. A smirk crawled up the musician’s cheek as his green dinosaur nearly pulled ahead, but D.Va’s prehistoric spiked turtle tossed a shell at him, causing Lucio’s brief moment of triumph to wink out as his racecar careened off the track. 

Instead of continuing to observe as the pair began to bicker, Genji turned around the corner threshold to see Hanzo sitting atop D.Va’s comforter, several stacks of thin, colored paper in his hands while he struggled with the folds. Beside him was a pile of torn and punctured sheets, each of them an aborted attempt at recreating the paper animals he once used to make so effortlessly. 

Immediately after Hanzo felt his gaze on him, his concentration slipped, causing him to accidentally impale the half-completed crane on a long and curved claw. Snarling, he tore the sheet off his finger and tossed it aside.

Hearing that, Lucio sighed, “I’ve been telling him to start with something simple, like a frog or something, but the dude’s got no patience.” He waited for Hanzo to reply, or lob a crumpled up ball at him, only to tilt his head to the side with concern when the silence the archer was meant to fill stretched on indefinitely. “Shoot,” he glanced over his shoulder to spot the long suffering look Hanzo had aimed his way. “Did we hit our word quota for the day, big guy?”

Rolling her shoulders back as she popped her gum, D.Va casually chimed in without taking her eyes off the screen, “Nah, he’s just frustrated and it makes it hard to focus. Give him a minute. It’ll come back.” Interestingly enough, Hanzo appeared to be both please and annoyed by their understanding.

It was a strangely domestic scene to walk into, a microcosm of a family given the time to grow by Hanzo’s weeks of recovery and recent stationary lifestyle. Although he’d never say it aloud, Genji couldn’t help but feel that not everything that had come as a result of Hanzo’s capture was terrible. Forcing a cheer in his synthetic tones that he didn’t necessarily feel, Genji announced to the quiet room, “I have good news, _nii-san_. You’ve been cleared to go on a mission.”

Hana’s head whipped to face him like it was spring-loaded. “Is it a solo mission? Because if it is, I’m going with him.”

“That defeats the purpose of a solo mission, Hana.” After putting the game they’d been in the middle of on pause, Lucio plopped the controller in his lap, before leaning back on his arms with a cocky grin, “And you can count me in, too.”

Genji did his best to calm them down before they could decide to stow away on their plane or something equally drastic. “Of course he’s not going alone. I’ll be with him.” He watched as the tension gradually seeped from their frames. “And it’s a surveillance mission. At most, we’ll be gone three days, then you can fuss over him and pester him for the details as you see fit.” 

A noisy crinkling drew their attention back to the mattress, where Hanzo had once again picked up his pile of paper to attempt another origami fold. After tracking the folds for a time, Genji recognized the beginnings of a paper lily. Unfortunately, Lucio hadn’t been wrong when he’d said his brother was too impatient, as it wasn’t long before the petals were impaled and Hanzo was agitatedly flicking his hand to shake them off.

Having kept an eye on his progress through her peripheral while she and Lucio restarted their match, D.Va commented with an offhandedness that came across as too deliberate to be sincere, “You know, you’d have an easier time if you’d let me file those bad boys down.”

Shaking his head, Hanzo snapped his thumb and fingers together sharply in a gesture Genji had only ever seen among the Nepalese monks who’d either sworn silence or lacked the ability to communicate through speech. 

Before he could ask about it, however, D.Va preempted him, saying proudly, “I’ve been teaching him some of the ASL I picked up on my old base. It’ll help some if something like this happens on a mission.”

“His Japanese and Chinese seem to stick with him, though,” Lucio added. 

“Well, we started learning English when were older, maybe eight or nine. Japanese and Chinese were taught simultaneously, as well as the basics of our ninja training.” 

Hanzo sighed, then with a mischievous spark in his gaze, pointed at Genji and mimed a roar, along with several other gestures that the cyborg couldn’t begin to guess the meaning of. Hana snorted first, amusement quirking her lips into a smile, and Lucio outright snickered. 

Since Genji was waiting for an explanation, Lucio helpfully explained as he wiped a tear from his eye, “He says you were a monster that terrified the teachers so badly they had to tie you down.” 

After making a mental note to learn the basics of sign language (he was fairly certain that both his master and Dr. Ziegler would be willing and able to help), Genji turned to face his brother with a wounded, “Et tu, _anija_?”

At first, Hanzo’s expression fell in blank surprise, his head tilting quizzically to the side in a mannerism that mirrored his own, causing Genji to briefly and silently panic that he hadn’t made it clear enough that he was kidding. Then, impossibly, a toothy grin began to stretch over his features, familiar as an oft-remembered dream and entirely unrepentant.

The four of them glanced up at the ceiling when Winston’s voice announced over the loudspeaker that they were each being called to report for a mission update.

 

Once everyone was seated in the conference room, Winston pulled up a hologram of a globe on the table. On it, a pulsing red dot could be seen over Moscow. Reports claimed that the Russian mob had formed a base of operations in an abandoned storage warehouse near the Moskva River. 

They waited patiently for the archer to speak, as most had made a conscious effort to allow him the chance before looking to others to do so in his stead, and Hanzo wetted his lips, hoping that the sound would come, “ _Mondai nai._ ”

Low, rough, and not exactly the language he was aiming for, yet so much more than he was once capable of. Even so, Hanzo winced at how unpolished and strange the words of his native tongue sounded coming from his altered vocal cords. 

“He says it ain’t gonna be a problem,” the outburst came from McCree, who turned to meet the eyes of everyone who turned to face him without any shame and, in fact, puffed out his chest with pride. “I’ve been studying.”

 

Due to a wealth of practice with prioritizing necessity and speed over comfort, Hanzo and Genji each had their bags packed and were ready to depart within in the hour.

They’d already said their goodbyes to the majority of Overwatch, which meant that their farewell party consisted solely of Hana, Lucio, Tracer, and their newest teammate, a young and exceptional scientist named Mei. She’d been frightened of Hanzo at first and had thus taken to avoiding him during her first few weeks on base. It wasn’t until they’d discovered a shared love of tea that they’d found a bridge with which to conquer that fear. Ever since then, they’d taken to spending the early mornings together, each with a mug in their hands as the sun rose and colored the sky. 

Having calmed down significantly now that the promise of fresh air and activity was so near, and perhaps because he found interacting with the younger members much less stressful than dealing with the older veterans, Hanzo discovered that speaking came more easily to him now. Hiking his bag on his shoulder, he placed a clawed hand lightly on the young scientist’s shoulder, and said, “Mei?” She looked up at him with a fond smile while he attempted to formulate his thoughts. “Try not to do anything reckless while I’m gone.” It wasn’t precisely what he’d meant to express, but he hoped that she would understand. 

And judging by the way her smile brightened and grew, she did. 

A sharp tug on his ponytail showed what D.Va thought about his apparent lack of confidence in their ability to go three days without blowing something up in his absence, though he was actually more worried that Hana would take advantage of the opportunity to stream non-stop for 72 hours.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about us, luvs.” Tracer assured them with a quick jab at her chest before her arms outstretched and she managed to hook Mei, Lucio, and D.Va into a squeezing embrace, “We’re professionals.”

After disentangling himself from her spaghetti limbs with a chuckle, Lucio straightened up and added confidently, “Ain’t no trouble we can get into that we can’t get ourselves right back out of.”

Through their combined efforts, their assurances did approximately nothing to lessen Hanzo’s concerns. He turned to Genji for moral support, only to see his brother had shifted his body away from him in an ultimately fruitless attempt to conceal his amusement. Though a hand lay over his mask to conceal to the sound, Hanzo could tell that his shoulders were jumping slightly with the laughter he was trying to hide. 

Another, gentler tug on his hair pulled his attention downwards, resulting in him coming face-to-face with Hana Song, who was wearing a surprisingly stern expression that didn’t quite match her youthful features, “Watch your six out there.” Then she released him, her eyes drifting to the outside where the helicopter awaited their boarding. “When you get back, you and I are going to have a girl’s night. Your locks are in desperate need of some serious TLC.” 

It was the closest to a ‘Come home safe’ that Hanzo was going to get from her, and he nodded to show that he understood. When she finally stepped back to rejoin the others, her eyes were suspiciously wet. For someone so young, she was far too inured to the idea of losing the people she cared about, but neither of the Shimada brothers had any plans of dying. Not when there was a family waiting for their return. 

As they made their way to their transport, Genji slipped effortlessly into their native language to say, “ _What happened to you? You’ve always had the conversational skills of a cardboard box, and now it’s like you’re Mr. Popular._ ”

Hanzo grunted. “ _I fail to see how my social inequities have anything to do with paper goods._ ”

It would be some time before they could effortlessly trade barbs again, yet it was only a second before Genji accused with a tone of naked disbelief, “You’re messing with me.”

A smirk tugging at his lips, Hanzo walked several steps ahead. "Perhaps." 

It was good to know that some things didn’t change.

 

Their transport was designed to take them from Gibraltar to an estimated 3 miles outside of Moscow so as to call as little attention to their arrival as possible. Normally, this would mean they would have to navigate the remaining distance, a task made only minutely more difficult since Russia was in the middle of its winter, but then again, when wasn’t it?

Despite installing a self-heating feature in Genji herself to keep his fuel lines and joints from freezing in inclement weather, Angela had packed Genji a suitcase worth of coats and jackets, which were to be shared with his brother since no one knew how the alterations to his body would react to the extreme cold. 

Not caring for his appearance when there was a chance of what little flesh he’d retained over the years getting frostbite, Genji pulled first McCree’s jacket over his head, then Morrison’s, and briefly debated wearing Reinhardt’s coat before trying it on revealed that the garment hung to his knees. 

He didn’t take it off fast enough to keep Hanzo from noticing him wearing it. His golden eyes widened. “You look ridiculous.”

“ _You_ look ridiculous,” Genji retorted sulkily, but Hanzo just waved him off with a subdued exhalation that could have easily been misconstrued for a laugh.

Genji put his foot down when Hanzo tried to leave the transport without a jacket. Their heated debate had stopped just short of being an argument when Hanzo at last agreed to wear a coat that, as far as he could tell, hadn’t belonged to any of the other members of Overwatch previously. It was navy blue with a silver trim, and filled with downy feathers that began to capture and store his escaping warmth the instant he put it on. Before he could ask about it, Genji said, “Angela noticed you didn’t have any winter wear and bought that herself.”

Hanzo shifted until the coat settled over his torso. It fit perfectly. “That’s going above and beyond her duties as a medic, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” Genji allowed. “But you know as well as I that she is more than that.”

Once that was done, they activated the transport’s camouflage device and lowered the hanger door, after which the freezing temperatures slammed against their bodies like a physical blow. 

Even with the extra layers, the cyborg’s movements became stiff and slow not long after they entered the unprecedented blizzard, and Hanzo wasn’t doing much better. He couldn’t smell anything, couldn’t see anything, had no way of knowing if they were even going in the right direction.

He felt as the cold seeped into him without resistance. He was so used to adapting well to the cold, as though he’d been born with his own internal heat source, that he’d only ever superficially considered the possibility that the experiments done on him might have changed that. 

Despite the deadly chill sinking its fangs into him, his body didn’t seize or shiver, his teeth didn’t chatter. It was concerning to say the least, but as he could see that Genji was struggling as much as he was, if not more so, he opted to keep the information to himself. 

“Did it not occur to Winston that there were agents better equipped to complete this mission?” Hanzo managed to grit out after a time. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was a neverending expanse of white. 

“Well, you could say that surveillance missions are kind of our thing. And the blizzard was a surprise –" The ground beneath his feet groaned and creaked. They looked down to see a clear surface beneath the snow, something too thin to be ice. There were spider webs cutting through it, followed by a resounding crack, and the ground beneath Genji shattered, but Hanzo was already running towards him. He flung himself over the glass sheet to latch into his brother’s limb before he could be sent hurtling dozens of feet to the bottom of whatever buried building they’d stumbled upon. 

For once, Hanzo was grateful for his scales, as they kept the glass from cutting in his palm as he did his best to brace the frame with one hand and hold onto his brother with the other. 

“This glass won’t hold us for long. I’m going to swing you towards the wall. See if there is something you can grab onto.”

Genji looked up at him, and Hanzo couldn’t make out his expression past the green visor, but he wanted to, just to see if it were anywhere near as hopeless as his words, “Even for me, _anija_ , the walls are too far to reach.”

But this wasn’t about Genji’s strength or speed or agility – it was about Hanzo’s. And Hanzo was stronger than he’d ever been. And so it was with a grunt and a roar that he launched the cyborg at the closest wall, where he could make out railings and different levels, the way there was in a shopping mall. He watched the cyborg arc through the air, only to land hard on the railing that he’d aimed for, hard enough to bruise but hopefully not hard enough to break any parts. 

Hanzo allowed himself a sigh of relief before he felt the glass give and the snow-covered escalator below came rushing up to meet him. There was a shout, followed by a green streak of light, and he was plucked out of the air, carried in his brother’s arms. Genji used the momentum he’d gained from pushing off of the second floor balcony to take them to the first, and from there, he guided them to the ground, where he quickly set Hanzo on his feet. 

Letting his knees crumble, Hanzo collapsed to the tiled floor, and was soon joined by Genji, as they each tried to come to terms with how close they’d come to death on a simple and easy surveillance mission. 

Once their breathing had evened out and the majority of the shakiness left by their rushing adrenaline had subsided, Genji managed to stand up to get a better grasp of their surroundings. It was a mall, like he’d suspected, and completely abandoned. There were broken windows and clothes littering the floor, as well as what appeared to be what remained of a frozen Omnic peeking out from the snow. Something told him that if he looked too closely, he would find more bodies of a similar nature, and possibly some human corpses as well. 

Following his gaze, Hanzo growled at the deactivated automation, then dismissed it with a sniff, as it was hardly a concern at the moment. They managed to scavenge enough supplies to build a fire a good distance away from the hole they’d left in the ceiling, and decided to wait the storm out rather than risk getting lot again. 

Though most of the food was either already taken or gone bad, Genji found some chips in a vending machine by the bathrooms and brought back an armful of the packaged goods for them to share around the crackling flames. 

For a time they didn’t speak, only stared vacantly at the ever shifting shapes of the fire chasing away the worst of the cold, then Hanzo cleared his throat to ask, “Do you think we would have been close?” Confused, Genji waited for him to explain what he meant, and Hanzo clarified that he was talking about what they might have been like if they’d never been born into the Shimada clan.

Scooting a little closer to his brother, who Genji now noticed was beginning to look a little pale, Genji said, “I mean, I would have hung out with you.”

A disbelieving scoff escaped Hanzo’s lips, but Genji insisted, “It’s true! You were cool, Hanzo… Especially when you weren’t trying to be who the Elders wanted you to be.” 

Allowing himself a moment to process that, Hanzo tipped back his head to stare up at the storm raging outside. “I doubt I would have hung out with you, though.” When Genji made a small, offended noise, Hanzo hastily elaborated, “You always beat me in the arcade.”

“I was the only one who could! Even now, you still can’t-”

“Will you be okay in this weather?” 

Due to his reeling a little from having his rant cut off before he could even properly get started – though it was such an old argument that Genji could have rehashed it in his sleep – Genji needed a minute to reorient himself. “I should be,” he said steadily. “Raising my core temperature prevents any priority systems from freezing,” he didn’t miss the way his brother flinched at the reminder of how little remained of his original body, “though it also significantly drains my internal power source. I could minimize power consumption if I mediated, but…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish. 

Hanzo merely shifted away from him with a tired sigh, “Do what you have to do, Genji. I’ll keep watch.”

 

Genji woke from his trance in darkness. 

Judging by the lack of embers in the makeshift pile of flammable objects they’d gathered, the fire had gone out long ago, and curled up a few feet from it was Hanzo, his knees pulled to his chest in a desperate bid for warmth. Seeing his older brother sleeping when he should have been keeping an eye on their surroundings and maintaining the fire, Genji felt a spark of irritation light within him, though he quickly tamped it down, for he knew well how such emotions could blind one to the truth. 

Once his mind was clear of the filter of the past that sometimes clouded his vision when he was with his brother, Genji realized that something was wrong. The rise and fall of Hanzo’s chest, though visible, was too shallow to be natural, and the interval between them too long. 

He scrambled over to him, fearing the worst, and began to shake him. “Hanzo? You need to wake up.” Still nothing. Not even a twitch. Unsure of what to do, Genji put a little more force into the shakes,“ _Okinasai, nii-san!_ ”

Finally, when Hanzo showed no sign of stirring, he sat back on his hind legs and rested his head in his hands. They should have suspected that something like this would happen. All of the reptilian features, the serpentine pupils – he’d thought Hanzo’s stillness had meant he wasn’t cold enough to shiver, that his internal temperature was keeping him in a healthy stasis. Not once had he suspected that there was no internal temperature, or that every second without an external heat source was leeching the very warmth from his blood. 

Without any other recourse, since there was no way to contact Gibraltar with the storm still in full swing, Genji peeled off his addition layers, pulled them over Hanzo, and then increased the settings of his own internal heating system to as high as it could go without the risk of an immediate meltdown. He hoped that the additional clothing would allow for the warmth to seep through more gradually, as he didn’t want to accidentally burn him. 

Within ten minutes, Hanzo’s eyelids began to flutter, revealing golden irises with a worrying bluish tinge. By that time, Genji was burning, yet he kept his voice level and free of strain as he asked his brother simple questions about who and where he was. Initially, Hanzo found it difficult to focus, and he nodded off several times before consciousness stuck, and with it, lucidity. 

Golden eyes widened with panic upon recognizing the source of the heat penetrating his layers of clothing, because every joint, every inch of his cybernetic brother was spewing geisers of steam into the frigid air. After pulling away from Genji’s grasp to get a better look at them, Hanzo muttered in horror, “What have you done?”

“Actually,” Genji slurred with a punchiness that spelled trouble, “I’m pretty sure I’m well done.”

“Turn it off,” Hanzo hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders. “I am fine now.” And then not even waiting for a response, he began coating his brother with snow in an attempt to force his mechanical body to cool. It was frustrating to watch how quickly it melted upon contact with the searing metal, but eventually it began to take longer stretches of time, and the plumes of steam began to falter, and the horrible whirring and grinding noises emanating from within him began to quiet. 

Once they were both out of danger, they slumped against each other, too exhausted by the two-fold ordeal to move. After a while, Genji dragged a palm over his visor, before venting some of his frustration by tilting his head back to the ceiling and complaining loudly, “Who leaves a shopping mall buried under the snow, anyway?’

Thinking back to the Omnic parts they’d glimpsed within the stores, Hanzo guessed, “Perhaps someone who has no interest in unearthing a graveyard.”

Not long after, a single ray of sunlight streamed through the glass above them, and they looked up to see that the storm had calmed considerably. Not wanting to risk another fall, through ice or glass or other, they strapped tennis rackets to their feet to help distribute their weight, though not before Hanzo attempted to force Genji to take McCree’s and Morrison’s jackets back. In the end, they compromised. 

Hanzo kept McCree’s jacket, as well as his own, while Genji wore Morrison’s coat. Once they set out, it didn’t take them long to regain their bearings and find the town, especially now that their vision wasn’t being obscured by the blizzard. When they reached the warehouse, however, it appeared to be abandoned. 

They searched the entire perimeter without once exposing their presence, and yet there were no footprints in the snow, no tracks of machinery or indentations left behind by cargo. It was as though the place had never been inhabited to begin with. 

His anxiety rising due to the eerie silence of the deserted building, Hanzo readjusted the slender practice bow he’d brought for the mission, feeling foolish even as he did so. He’d only brought it to appease Morrison, after all. He couldn’t even nock an arrow without cutting the string with his claws. 

Gesturing to the warehouse, Genji tilted his head, “Do you think we should go inside?” Technically, they’d already scouted the place, yet the mission wouldn’t feel complete if they didn’t make absolutely certain that this wasn’t some ruse or elaborate cover-up. The probability of such was unlikely, but as the agents responsible for this mission, it was a matter of pride that they be absolutely sure. 

Without a word, Hanzo strode over to the metallic shutters nailed to the sides of the warehouse and began to climb to the top. Genji followed, and soon they reached a small rectangular window just below the roof that they could slip into without drawing attention to themselves. Once they were in, they blended seamlessly among the rafters, with Genji making sure to dim his vibrant green lights…

And then they looked down.

And there was Reaper, standing in the very center of the building with his shotguns resting idly at his sides. Simultaneously, the brothers realized what should have been obvious before they’d even stepped foot on the grounds – there had never been a Russian mob in the warehouse. There had never been a criminal operation, or rumors, or anything of the sort. 

There had only ever been Reaper waiting for them in an empty warehouse. This wasn’t a mission. It was a trap, and they’d nearly lost their lives so that they could walk right into it. 

“I know you’re there, Shimadas,” the wraith called up to the ceiling while the brothers sank further into the shadows. “I can practically taste your fear.”

A low, subdued growl emanated from behind Genji. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Hanzo’s eyes had gone glassy with remembrance, and his claws sank into the beams from which he braced himself. He was there, and yet, he wasn’t. Some part of Hanzo was back in a cell, staring with hatred and dread at his captor. Reaching back, Genji attempted to give his hand a reassuring and grounding squeeze. “Stay with me, _nii-san_.” Hearing his voice, Hanzo’s gaze swiveled to find him, and beneath his visor, Genji smiled, “I need you here.”

“What were you thinking, Shimada?” Reaper continued, ignorant of their brief exchange. “That you could escape and rejoin society while looking like a freak?” Without a word, Genji turned his attention back to the opponent below them, “After what they did to you, Talon’s the only organization left in the world that could possibly want anything to do with you.”

And Genji knew he was being baited, knew that the reason the wraith had chosen to confront them alone was because he was simply that confident in his ability to overtake them, but when he thought back to those first few weeks his brother had spent locked in a cell because he’d forgotten what it meant to be human, Genji realized he didn't care. After dropping from the rafters to land solidly on the earth with his fist planted in the ground, Genji’s head snapped up to meet the hollow-eyed gaze of the wraith as he climbed stiffly to his feet, “That’s enough, Reyes.”

Twirling his weapons idly, Reaper glanced around, clearly anticipating another arrival, before finally settling his gaze on Genji.“I was hoping for the real deal instead of the cheap cybernetic knock-off,” he shrugged, “but I guess you’ll just have to do.”

And then there was a second presence beside Genji, this one almost more beast than man. With his fangs bared in a guttural snarl and his long ears pinned against his skull, there was no mistaking Hanzo’s feelings on seeing his old warden again. Still, though he yearned to tear into the wraith’s cloak with his claws, out of respect to his brother, he took a step back, and nocked an arrow instead, “You will not touch him.”

Reaper laughed, the sound like bones scraping against stone, “The only threat to him here is you. Left to your own devices, one day you’ll finish what you started.”

Though Genji’s katana was raised, the words of power that would call upon his dragon sitting heavily on his tongue, Hanzo lowered his bow, “Genji is not a child. If he asks me to leave, I shall.” He glanced over at his brother. “I will not impose my presence where it is not wanted.” Then aimed his arrow once more at the wraith’s chest, and this time with a steely resolve he hadn’t possessed before. “But it is not up to me to make his decisions for him.”

At that, as if they’d rehearsed it, he and Genji split apart, Hanzo sprinting for a vantage point while Genji raced forward to get within Reaper’s guard, and even as the mercenary fired off shells at the neon afterimage trailing his brother as he repeatedly struck with his blade, he mocked Hanzo for distancing himself from the battle, “Are you so cowardly that you would allow the man you nearly killed to fight for you?”

A shotgun blast caught Genji squarely on the chest at the same time that Hanzo fired off a scatter arrow. The blow lifted him from the ground, and as though in slow motion, Hanzo watched in horror as he was propelled backwards and slammed against the wall with enough force to rattle it. When he dropped to the ground, he made no move to get up again. 

Rushing from the shadows, Hanzo fired off several explosive arrows at the wraith, each of them aimed for the Talon agent’s torso. Though the first passed through the mercenary without harming him, the second he tried to catch, and it exploded in his face. While he cursed and snarled, Hanzo placed himself firmly between the mercenary and his brother, knowing that he would die to protect him if it came to it, but also that he was no longer the only person in his life whom he wished to protect. There were people waiting for him to return safely, and he was going to do absolutely everything in his power not to disappoint them. 

The wraith turned to smoke that swirled and twisted without form, and Hanzo tracked its path, his lips curled and a deep growl reverberating within his chest. It wasn’t enough, though, because without warning, he felt the bow plucked from his grasp, “Why do you try so hard to fight like a man?” In a desperate bid, Hanzo ducked within the wraith’s guard to retrieve the bow, only to watch helplessly as the mercenary’s legs dissolved into mist, allowing him to effortlessly drift out of his range. His next move was to slam the bow over his knee, cracking it and rendering it useless. 

Enraged, Hanzo made to swipe at him. The reaper laughed at him. As though reading his thoughts, he sneered, “Who can you protect with those deformed limbs of yours?”

And Hanzo didn’t know. He was fighting a ghost, running on fumes, and he didn’t know. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest. There was no telling what would happen to Genji if he did. A groan from behind him let him know that Genji was at least waking up. Seeing that his attention was divided, Reaper followed his gaze to the cyborg, then asked with a deceptive nonchalance, “Tell me something, Shimada, if his blood were to fall on your hands again, could you survive it?”

Snarls ripped from Hanzo’s throat at the threat. He lifted his clawed hands, fully intending to tear the wraith to pieces with them.

“Get away from him!”

The wraith glanced at Genji where he still laid horizontal, though he was struggling to sit up, then with a malice dripping from his words that sent shivers crawling up Hanzo’s spine, he confessed, “I don’t think you could.” And a smoke bomb fell from Reaper’s cloak, allowing him to dissolve seamlessly within the billowing gas. Hanzo whipped his head around wildly, listening for anything that could give away the wraith’s presence. There was movement and a flash and his claws went out-

And the smoke screen part to reveal Genji impaled on his hands. 

Hanzo froze, his mind going utterly blank. 

“You see?” The reaper intoned while Genji groped clumsily at his fingers in an attempt to free himself. Circling them, the wraith continued, “You belong with us, Hanzo. You were made to destroy.”

“…no.” 

Did Hanzo say that? He wasn’t sure. There was a buzzing in his head, so loud he couldn’t think, and there’s blood on his hands, drenching his gi. It dripped from his blade no matter how much he cleaned it, until he was forced by guilt and ghosts to put it away and never pick it up again.

He was a monster. 

Seeing something in Hanzo’s expression that frightened him, Genji redoubled his effots to free himself, begging, “Don’t listen to him, Hanzo!”

But though Hanzo set him down gently and pulled his claws from his torso, there was no sign that he’d heard him call his name, no recognition. It was as though he couldn’t see Genji at all. 

He sidestepped Genji, who had a hand pressed against his stomach in an effect to stem the flow of the cooling agent within him, and tossed his quiver aside to join the discarded bow on the floor. Gradually, a subtle azure glow illuminated his tattoo, and though there was nothing left for him to channel the dragons with, the light traveled from his wrist to his arm, until finally the dragon’s entire body was luminous and vivid, just waiting to come alive. A blue sheen spread over Hanzo’s golden eyes, causing them to glow as well, and then he charged forward, his mouth snapping as he lunged for the reaper’s throat, only for his jaws to close on fabric that dissolved to smoke between his teeth. 

He slashed ferociously, forcing the wraith backwards, and when finally a scaled claw with a bluish aura curled around its tip caught the reaper’s mask, it knocked the porcelain owl’s head off the man, and revealed the reaper’s true face. 

Standing in a black and ragged cloak, was a man with tendons and muscles exposed at his jawline, and too many scarlet, unblinking eyes. In that moment, Genji had never been more convinced that Gabriel Reyes, former Commander of Blackwatch, truly was dead. After all, the man had been undeniably human, and this creature standing before them now… it wasn’t. 

Cursing under his breath, the wraith dissolved once more into smoke and fled into the rafters, leaving Genji with his brother, who had yet to calm down. There was no outlet for his rage now, no release for his power, and one look at the feral snarl distorting his features caused Genji’s heart to sink, because it was the same look he’d worn when they’d first rescued him from Talon. 

Somewhere, a window shattered, and before Genji so much as shout a warning, a needle had lodged itself in his brother’s shoulder. 

He fell.

 

A few hours later, Genji and Morrison stood outside the infirmary with their arms crossed over their chests, though for different reasons. For his part, Genji was understandably upset. He’d seen Hanzo injected with a dart, and assumed the worst. He certainly hadn’t expected to see the solider stride into the warehouse with his pulse rifle drawn shortly afterward. “Did you have to carry tranquilizers with you?” He muttered, annoyance leaking in his tone despite his best efforts.

The solider shifted slightly to look at him, “Could you imagine if I hadn’t?”

It wasn’t that Genji wasn’t grateful for the outcome, but the question was why Morrison had thought it necessary to bring them in the first place. Instead of mentioning that, though, he chose instead to apologize for the mission’s failure.

Morrison listened without comment until he was finished, then let loose a heavy sigh. What others would age in years, he aged in seconds. “It wasn’t your fault. Reaper had the mission sabotaged from the start. I should have known he wouldn’t give up on retrieving the heir to a once powerful criminal organization without a fight.”

And suddenly, the pieces shifted into place. “But you did know, didn’t you? That’s why you followed us.” 

The silence stretched for a while, neither of them willing to back down, before the tension finally drained from the soldier’s posture, and he gestured to the clinic “Go check on your brother, Shimada. I’m worried that with this whole ordeal, we’ll find we’ve taken one step forward and two steps back with him.”

Their conversation wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but what Jack had said struck a cord in the ninja, as he’d come to a similar conclusion on the flight home. After bidding the soldier a curt farewell, he stepped into the infirmary to see Dr. Ziegler working at her desk while Lena, Lucio, and Mei occupied the guest seats around his brother’s cot, and D.Va sat partially on the mattress with her slender fingers entrenched in his brother’s hair, twisting the locks into a neat braid. 

They glanced up guiltily at his arrival, probably because he’d waited outside as Dr. Ziegler had asked instead of sneaking his way inside, but he was an adult and holding grudges was beneath them, so he filed the information away to use only in the case of emergencies, such as when he wanted a cup of coffee and didn’t want to get up to prepare it himself. “Do you guys think I could have a moment to speak with Hanzo?”

Thankfully, Lucio understood the need for privacy and herded the rest outside, though Hana glared at the untied end of Hanzo’s braid as though daring it to come undone in her absence. 

Once they were out of earshot, Genji blurted, “I am sorry, _anija_. I did not expect-“

But Hanzo cut him off, “How are your injuries?”

With a hint of exasperation – because, honestly, which of them was sitting in the infirmary? – Genji replied, “They are fine, _nii-san_. It looked worse than it was.”

And Hanzo instantly relaxed. “That is good to hear.” A lull followed, during which neither of them spoke, but it wasn’t uncomfortable like so many before it, only quiet. A slight change occurred in Hanzo’s bearing during the duration. His claws hooked into his sheets, and his gaze found the window, and still, Genji said nothing, until at last, Hanzo told him something he’d thought he might never hear again, “Tomorrow, I would like to train with you.”

“With your bow?” Genji said, just to be sure.

Hanzo nodded. “When I saw him, it was as though I had never left that place.” His expression hardening, he finished, “I never want to be so helpless again.”

Placing a hand lightly over Hanzo’s, Genji scoffed playfully at the idea of him being anything even resembling helpless, because when had such a descriptor truly fit either of them? “And even if you believe it to be true, that is why you are a part of a team. Being around those you care for, and who care for you in return, has a way of turning your weaknesses into strengths.” It had been true for him, and if the four waiting outside to resume their visit were any indication, then it was true for Hanzo, as well. “Talon may have changed your body, brother, but they have not changed your soul.”

Glancing away and coughing in an effort to conceal the wetness in his eyes and voice, Hanzo asked, “When did you become so wise?”

“When I started listening to the wisdom of others.” And to show the extent of his sincerity, Genji removed his visor, so that his brother could see the sincere warmth and gentle amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes. 

In truth, he’d never been prouder of his brother.


	32. Recruitment

One of the first lessons taught to the recruits in Blackwatch was to never let their guard down during a mission. If word had gotten around in those days that Jesse McCree had let a pretty face with purple hair and neon clothes get him sloshed on whiskey shots, he would have been laughed out of the outfit.

There was something about the young woman decked from her head to her toes in tech that had drawn McCree's eye, tickled at his instincts, and so he'd dusted off his most charming smile and ambled up to the seat next to her. He hadn't thought much of the first drink she'd bought him, only that it was an expensive brand he'd never even dreamt of being able to afford, not on the bounty hunter's wages that supported him.

Now, he knew how to act like a man who couldn't handle his liquor, but she was a sharp one. She watched him closely, smile bright and dangerous, to make sure he drained every drop. Without an ounce of wiggle room or a second to himself, it wasn't long before the bottles behind the counter began to blur. Exhaustion swept over him, weighing him down like his entire body was heavy with lead, and he rested his head on the counter.

 _Just for a minute_ , he told himself, oblivious to the disappointed sigh coming from beside him. _Just gotta rest for a sec and then I'll be back in the game._

Reyes had always warned him about his vices being the death of him.

He was woken later to a firm grip from the large hand on his shoulder shaking him, "Alright, hermano, pay your bill and go home. We're closing for the night." The voice was unquestionably male, deep and rough from a lifetime of drink and smoke. "The lady said you offered to pay for her drinks, as well." Without even cracking open an eyelid to check, the cowboy began to catalogue his surroundings. Judging by the lack of chairs sliding on the tile and footsteps moving towards the door, most of the patrons had already left, which immediately raised the likelihood of this ending in an altercation. And why would it end with an altercation?

Because even though he'd walked into that bar with a wallet in his pocket, which would have at least allowed him to hopefully get on the other side of the border before the bartender realized he was flat broke, there was nothing but dust and empty space in his pockets now.

There was a couple hundred in debt on most of his credit cards, making them virtually worthless to any thief, but even so, he hadn't realized how off his game he was. All that passed through his mind in a matter of seconds, and he opened his eyes slowly, keeping his expression dazed and guileless as though he hadn't been trained to snap to alertness at the first sign of trouble. He made no move to touch the hand on him, though he longed to throw it off, and drawled, "What seems to be the problem, mister?"

He looked up to see a bouncer with a shaved head and tattooed biceps the size of tree trunks. It was about what he'd expected. The conversation grew heated once it became apparent he didn't have any money on him. It wasn't long before there were three bouncers flanking him, each of them sporting the signature Los Muertos insignia on their skin. They hooked their arms beneath his and dragged him out into the ally where the bar's trash was kept, a narrow space that smelled strongly of alcohol and rotting foods.

Having been in a gang before, McCree knew what to expect, and thus the first fist in his stomach was no surprise. It knocked the wind out of him, made black stars explode in his vision, and yet his hands stayed as far away from his gun as he could manage, which was pretty far, as it would turn out, because they were plenty busy giving back as much as he got. He could have sworn he heard a nose crack at one point.

One of the skinnier punks reeled back with a cry after a solid hit. McCree caught a glimpse of blood streaming scarlet from his nostrils before his hands flew to his face, and the cowboy allowed himself a feral, red-streaked grin.

The distraction cost him, though, when a closed fist connected with his temple with enough force to drop him like a bag of rocks. He landed dazed, the lingering alcohol in his system joining forces with his shiny new concussion to wreak havoc on his senses. As he dragged his body to the wall for support, just enough to keep him upright so he wasn't lying flat on his back on the ground, the gangsters realized that he wasn't getting up again and turned their backs on him to head back into the bar and then make their way home. They'd never been after his life, only wanted to rough him up enough to send the message to anyone thinking of stiffing a Los Muertos sponsored establishment that theirs was an operation that wouldn't tolerate such behavior.

It was a lesson that sucked for anyone on the receiving end, but McCree didn't mind taking a couple licks if it meant he could get through the night without any extra blood on his hands. It was Christmas, for cryin' out loud. He refused to shoot people on Christmas.

A man had to have _some_ standards in this crazy, mixed up world.

He wasn't sure how long he sat outside, only that he couldn't remember when it had started to snow. It clung to his lashes, cool and wet, and collected in his lap. Tilting his head back against the wall, McCree breathed out a long sigh, sending plumes of mist into the night.

What he'd failed to notice, because the man hadn't made a single sound in his approach, nor spoken a word since he'd arrived, was the Japanese archer staring down at him with an impassive gaze. At least, McCree assumed he was an archer; he was wearing a quiver filled with impressively sharpened arrowheads, after all. They could have been a sign that he was involved in some kind of club or interested in pursuing the skill purely as a hobby, but even with his mind fogged and his thoughts slow, something told the cowboy that this wasn't the case. Even with his hands shoved in the windbreaker he wore, he appeared to be dressed a little lightly for the cold. Groaning as he struggled to focus, Jesse slurred, "Who th' hell are you…?"

"Nobody," the archer replied without missing a beat. Then he bent to drape the cowboy's flesh arm over his shoulders and hefted him to his feet. They walked together through the crowd as the snow continued to drift in fluffy clumps from the sky, the archer supporting the cowboy's back so he would not falter or stumble. Every now and then, McCree would catch his gaze wandering to the well-lit shops decorated with wreaths and bells, would watch without comment as he tilted his head to the sky and followed the paths of the snowflakes with his sharp eyes. It was like the man was seeing the world for the first time, and it took McCree's breath away

"Hey," he muttered after a time, and the archer tilted his head to show he was listening, reminding him rather strangely of a certain cyborg he'd once worked with," are you any good with a bow?" He could have sworn he saw the man smile, though it was closer to a smirk, more playful than any expression he'd expected to see cross the archer's stern features.

"Are you any good with that toy you keep strapped around your waist?"

That was when Jesse knew for certain that he liked the man. And wasn't Overwatch on the look out for the kind of guy who would pick up a drunk and beaten up gunslinger off the side of the road for no reason other than somebody had to? Overwatch was in need of heroes, and tonight, this archer was Jesse's hero.

So he offered him an invite. It came out a little jumbled, a little garbled, but it must have been clear enough to understand, because McCree saw the archer's eyes brighten with some emotion he couldn't pinpoint as his jaw slackened in surprise.

"You are… inviting me to join Overwatch?"

 

About a week later, Gibraltar base was buzzing with the news that McCree was brining a new recruit with him to the Recall. No one knew any details, only that the man was an archer, which had Genji understandably worried.

He ended up sharing his concerns with Hana while they were en route to meet the new archer at the entrance, "Maybe Jesse could take him back?"

"He's not a shoe, Genji." she replied, a mild reprimand in her tone. After blowing out a huge pink bubble and then popping it without getting a trace on her face, she added with a gleeful swing of her arms as she turned to speak to him and simultaneously walk backwards, "We'll just have two archers. The more the merrier!"

Somehow, Genji doubted his brother would share the sentiment.

He noticed McCree's outline first. It was a relief that he hadn't changed much over the years, still wearing the same hat and serape he'd been wearing when they'd last seen each other, shortly before Genji had departed from Overwatch to seek out solace elsewhere. The man beside him, however, was a mystery.

As his back was facing them while he conversed with the cowboy, Genji made note of the quiver strapped on his back and the likely hollowed-out guitar case in his hand. After his initial scan, his gaze swept over the undercut and pierces, each of which were surrounded by skin that was red and inflamed, as though he'd only recently had his ears done. He was roughly the same height as his brother, and the metal prosthetics were the same, yet he couldn't reconcile the man standing in front of him with the broken shell he'd found in Hanamura.

McCree said something low to the man, eliciting a full-bodied laugh from the archer, and Genji felt his heart still as his feet became rooted to the floor. He couldn't move a single step forward, couldn't walk away. It'd been so long since he'd heard his brother laugh that hearing it now felt like a dream.

Distantly, he heard Hana calling him, trying to get his attention. The archer turned, first his head, and then all at once. After visibly hesitating for a moment, his brother took a step forward, reached out his hand to Genji, and said, "Hello, I am called Hanzo." He paused to take a breath, to steel himself. "I'd like to fight by your side… if you'll still have me."

Genji couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't process. McCree's gaze flicked to him with concern while he struggled to move his stupid, unwieldy tongue, to raise his heavy limbs and take his brother's hand, but before he could utter more than a strangled groan, Hana rushed forward, virtually pushing him out of the way, and clasped his brother's hand in hers, "What do you say, newbie? Are you up for a friendly challenge?"

Hanzo blinked, his confusion at this turn of events evident, but nodded nonetheless, "I have never backed down from one before, friendly or otherwise. But know that I will not hold back in deference to your youth."

"Good," her mouth curved upwards at the ends in a cat-like grin as she dragged him off to the practice range, "It'd suck if I beat you too easily."

It was a solid minute before Genji found his voice, and once he did, his first act was to turn to McCree, who was also staring after the pair, and ask, "What just happened?"

 

There was a small party thrown, mostly by the insistence and planning of Winston and Tracer, to celebrate the reformation of Overwatch.

From the position he'd secured near the punch bowl, Hanzo could see every attendee, and there was certainly more to the organization than the handful of field agents he'd anticipated. There were volunteers chatting amicably near the entrance, most of whose names the archer didn't know, and often the few people he did know were preoccupied by their own groups, of which they were always the center. But Hanzo didn't have their pull or their magnetism, nor was he a planet caught in their orbit. In fact, in keeping with the metaphor, he had always imagined himself as something of a comet made of ice and dust, though that might have been his ego at work.

There were too many people, too many unknowns, but just as he was debating leaving the party to return to his quarters, Hana appeared at his side, "This party's kind of a bore, huh?" They each watched as Reinhardt threw back his head to laugh heartily at something 76 had said. Somehow, Hanzo doubted that making the elderly warrior laugh had been his intention. With her brown hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain, Hana angled her body so that she was looking up at him, and said, "What do you say we ditch and have some real fun?"

It didn't take him long to nod his agreement, then she hooked an arm under his with a smile and they walked out together, leaving the veterans to handle the niceties for the night. Though the archer had expected her to take him to the practice range, she actually led him to her quarters, where he could hear the sounds of cars honking and crashing while two grown men shouted at the top of their lungs.

Hana held her card up to the scanner beside her door, and her room opened to reveal his brother and cowboy staring unblinkingly at the television screen as they each tried to one up each other in the blaringly loud video game they were playing, "Throw that shell at me one more time, Shimada, and see what happens."

"I already know what will happen, cowboy." As he said this, Genji's small green dinosaur pulled ahead of McCree in the race. "I'm going to win."

"They like old video games because they're old," Hana muttered sourly, then she upended her comforter to find the television remote to lower the volume.

"Hey!"

It wasn't long before Hanzo found a place on the mattress where he could sit to observe the game, though he made sure to keep his metallic boots off the fabric, as was polite, and Hana snuggled up beside him, entirely content to rest against his side despite their recent introduction. And every now and then, when Genji would pull into first and squeeze out a win, he'd raise up a fist with a triumphant shout and Hanzo would bump their knuckles together while the cowboy called for a rematch. Overtime, others joined, and soon Lucio was switching off with Genji while Tracer alternated with the cowboy, and in the dim room, illuminated only by the flashing screen, Hanzo caught himself thinking about family, as he often did, but for the first time in a very long time, the thoughts brought no pain, no regret, only a promise of a better future.

Closing his eyes, the archer did his best to tune out the heated outbursts of Spanish, Portuguese, and Japanese emanating from the floor as Lena somehow managed to incapacitate the entirety of her competition with turtle shells, wrapped his arm around the sleeping girl slumped against him, and thought fondly of what tomorrow might bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A post-Reflections one-shot for Dragunz because they asked what might make Hanzo choose Overwatch over Talon and become personally invested in their cause, and I did wind up thinking about it. 
> 
> In the end, I don't believe that he'll ever really become entirely invested in Overwatch's cause, but rather become invested in the _people_ who are invested in the cause. And it won't be through some traumatic event or a pivotal turning point, but a series of small and ultimately uneventful interactions.
> 
> This was also inspired by dilfosaur's comic on tumblr, so if you haven't already seen her work, I highly recommend that you do.


	33. A Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to offset any confusion, this story is something of a hybrid between canon and a modern au. For one, they're living in apartments, and for another, it's never outright specified what Hanzo did to Genji, only that Genji still bares the scars and Hanzo blames himself. Oh, and most importantly, McCree actually considers calling the police, which he likely would not do in canon because they'd arrest him.
> 
> _Aniki wo mite wa ore mo ureshii ni naru_ \- Glad to see you, too, brother.

With a hand clenched tightly around the neck of his wine bottle, Hanzo stalked forward, forcing McCree to press his back against his apartment door as his lips curled to reveal sharpened canines and an unpleasant whiff of stale breath and alcohol.

"Get. Out."

Now, McCree wasn't rightly sure what he or anyone else had done to upset the man. Sure, he'd arrived at the archer's place without calling ahead, but the last thing he'd expected to find when he got there was Hanzo still in yesterday's clothes, though with a white robe draped over the ruined dress shirt and wrinkled pants that fell haphazardly from his shoulders to slip down his arms, seemingly without the archer's notice. An empty bottle of wine had rolled under the coffee table at some point, along with several beers, and it wasn't even noon yet.

McCree swallowed hard, knowing that Hanzo wasn't fully in control, and from the looks of the bags beneath his eyes, had spent the entire night in a similar state. Moving ever so slowly and without ever turning his back, McCree turned the knob of the door behind him, then slipped out into the hallway, the furious, unfocused desolation the archer wore staying with him like a brand on his mind.

A low growl came from within the apartment, followed by thud that shook the door and the sound of glass shattering. McCree whipped out his phone, though his fingers hovered as he wrestled with the decision of calling the police or his brother first.

In the end, he hit #2 on his speed dial, then waited in the hallway without anything to do until Genji arrived, breathing heavily through his nose, and hefting a bulging backpack, "How is he?"

After going for a casual shrug that failed to be convincing, McCree deflated with a tired sigh, "Let's just say he's been better." While his green-haired companion laid his knapsack on the ground, McCree glanced towards the closed door and the disconcerting silence that lay beyond it. "He's got me worried, Genji." Calloused fingers ran through his hair to sweep the fringe aside before coming back around to drag over his face. "Startin' to think we should be callin' in an expert."

"This is my brother we're talking about, Jesse." A grin tugging at his scarred lips, Genji pulled out a small rectangular box from the bag, then he pulled a strap over his shoulder, and made his way to the door, his footfalls utterly soundless on the carpeting. Kneeling by the lock, he lifted the top to reveal a delicate pair of lock picking tools, and with a wink, said, "I _am_ the expert."

He fiddled with the silver instruments for a minute before a quiet click was heard, and Genji settled back, knees bent and balanced on the tops of his feet, relaxed and visibly satisfied with his handiwork. Without leaving his crouch, he turned the brass knob, pushed open the door, and slipped through the crack, leaving McCree to wait in the hallway for his reemergence from the deadly dragon's lair.

Once inside, Genji looked up to see Hanzo glaring down at him, mouth twisted into a scowl, though the heat sputtered and dimmed once recognition sunk through the self-inflicted haze. "Oh." Nostrils flaring, he inhaled through his nose. "It's you."

Rolling his eyes as he rose out of his crouch, Genji glibly replied, " _Aniki wo mite wa ore mo ureshii ni naru._ " Grimacing, he lifted his feet to avoid both the puddle of wine and colored shards of glass on the floor. "Love what you're doing with the place, by the way."

A hoarseness to Hanzo's trademark exasperated scoff seemed indicative of a sore throat, and Genji filed that thought away for later. One thing at a time. Watching him closely, the way a wary and stand-offish cat might watch an overly excitable canine, Hanzo slipped seamlessly into their native language, "What do you want, Genji?"

"What? A guy needs a reason to see his favorite brother?" After sparing a quick wink for the disbelieving arch to his older brother's brow, he held out his hands in front of him and unfurled his palms, "But now that you mention it, think you could show me where you keep the broom and mop?"

Though it took some coaxing, Hanzo eventually pointed him in the right direction, and once armed with cleaning supplies, Genji insisted that he stay on the couch or put on some slippers, since the man was barefoot and liable to cut his feet on the glass if he continued shuffling about. And Hanzo, being who he was, couldn't stomach the idea of anyone cleaning up his messes for him, so he vanished into his bedroom to reappear with gray slip-ons. Still, he was unsteady, swaying often even when standing still, so Genji asked that he hold the dustpan while he swept the debris in, as it kept him immobile and close. In his inebriated state, the archer was in no condition to guess his motives, and so he acquiesced without comment or complaint.

Between the two of them, it wasn't long before the apartment once again appeared safe to live in, leading Genji to move on to the next step of his master plan. After depositing Hanzo onto the couch, where he promptly sank bonelessly into the cushions, Genji proceeded to dig from his knapsack a giant-sized water bottle, a gallon of vanilla ice cream, and an Akira Kurosawa DVD - the one about the seven samurai - which just so happened to be one of Hanzo's favorite movies.

He stowed the ice cream in the freezer for later, as it had begun to melt while they'd spruced up the place, and he doubted that the sugary treat would mix well with the wine saturating Hanzo's system, then strode back to the sofa to toss Hanzo the water bottle. Suppressing a smile at the disgruntled huff his brother made as he clutched the beverage to his chest, Genji waved the DVD in front of him, "Try to finish that water before the movie's half-way over, okay? It's almost three hours long, so we both know that's not asking for a lot, and it'll help with that killer hangover you're bound to have later. Also, I brought painkillers with me, so let me know if your head starts to hurt."

For a time, Hanzo's only answer was to blink sluggishly from under the curtain of lifeless hair draped over the side of his face while Genji inserted the disk, found himself a comfy spot in the opposite corner of the couch, then covered the both of them with a wool blanket he'd found in the closet.

They watched in silence as the samurai on screen sat stoically under the hands of the monks as they cut off his topknot, and all for the sake of saving a child from a hopeless situation. It was later, when the villagers were supplying the samurai with rice in a desperate bid for his aid, that Hanzo quietly and nigh incoherently mumbled an apology. His eyelids had grown heavy, if the increasing time he spent with them closed was any indication. In fact, they were closed now. His head rested on the pillow with the lingering pull of an unhappy frown curving his mouth and a furrow to his brow.

Once his breathing settled into a steady rhythm, Genji reached over his brother to adjust the pillow in the hope that it would lessen the likelihood of his waking up with a nasty crick in his neck, and carefully tucked the blanket around his sides. Then he flicked the fringe away from Hanzo's eyes, careful not to accidentally catch any of his piercings, until finally, satisfied with his handiwork, he returned soundlessly to his place on the couch to finish the rest of the film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! Dragon's Punishment 2 should be coming around either today or tomorrow, which means something a little different to me because time difference, but eh. In any case, it'll be up soon. All I need to do is edit it and we're good as golden.


	34. Dragon's Punishment 2 (end)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shimada brothers are forced to accept that if they ever wish to be free of their curse, something must change. Whether that change will grant both of them their happy ending, however, is another story.

A furious and continuous blast of wind assailed the agents of Overwatch sent out to neutralize a Talon base located in the New Mexican desert. It carried with it a heat so dry it sucked the water from their mouths, leaving them parched as they fought with their swords and their guns to suppress the wave of terrorists Pharah’s aerial assault had flushed out of the underground network of caves. 

While the others complained as they fought – topics ranging from the sand in their joints to poor footing on the shifting and uneven earth – the soldier held his silence, his focus devoted to the completion of the mission, the cowboy smirked at the grumbling reaching his ears through the comm, since this was exactly the style of fighting he’d become acclimated to, back when fending off the bad guys in the West was still a solo gig, and D.Va grit her teeth in muted frustration. Her mech wasn’t built for the desert. Sand clogged its servos, hindering her movements, which meant her armored body suit’s reaction time was delayed, and every decision she made had to be carried out with that delay in mind. She needed to recognize the danger and react a second faster, then hope that it was enough. 

Her role in the team, she knew, was to get hit hard and hit back harder, but when she swiveled in her suit to see her companions had spread out, not enough to be out of sight, but enough to make it very difficult to help her when she was surrounded and overrun by overzealous Talon soldiers, each of them more than willing to snuff out the rising star, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. 

Everywhere she looked there were scarlet lenses and pitch black body armor, and every surface of her body seemed to carry on it a little red dot. It seemed like she wasn’t getting out of this in one piece. Once the thought crossed her mind, however, a blur of blue and shimmering scales raced over the top of the nearest dune to land solidly on the back of a Talon agent, squishing him into the dirt. Standing tall, the dragon shook itself free of a layer of dust and sand, then crouched low to shield its head from enemy fire while it whipped its long tail to knock the legs out from the soldiers approaching on its flank. 

The instant it’d carved a serviceable path to the mech, it trotted to her side with its fangs bared in a snarl aimed at the remaining soldiers, of which there were still much too many. 

With a fierce grin stretching across her face, D.Va slammed her hand down on the self-destruct button, leapt out of her cockpit, and landed directly on the dragon’s back. It launched itself forward, getting the pair of them away from the blast and clearing the enemy agents like they were little more than a wall to climb over. 

“You were early this time, buddy!” She shouted into the dragon’s ear over the gale, delighted. “I hadn’t even pressed the button yet!” And it’s great head twisted around to look up at her, the thick ridge of its brow raised as it gave a disbelieving whuff. Leaning back slightly, with her hands still curled in its mane, Hana replied defensively, “What?” Her shoulders tensed at the dragon’s continued skepticism. “Okay, I so do not do this all the time.” 

Its mouth curled up at the sides to reveal gleaming white fangs, the dragon raced through turrets and sniper fire to reunite her with the closest cluster of agents, which happened to be Genji and 76 fighting melee in a pit. The dragon crouched at the edge allowing her to dismount, even though she would have gladly gone charging into the fray while riding on its back, a desire it seemed to sense because it barked a scratchy laugh at her pout, then sprinted down the slippery copper-streaked sides of the ditch to sink its claws in the agent attempting to plunge a blade into the ninja’s chest. 

“Hey, Hanzo!” Genji called out cheerfully as he pivoted to swiftly disarm the soldier behind him, allowing the dragon to easily slip into the newly open position at his back. “What took you so long?”

Like Hana, Genji always talked to the dragon like it could honestly understand what he was saying, but anyone that saw the way the dragon exasperatedly flicked its dark brown eyes up to the ledge where Hana waved would be hard-pressed to say otherwise. Chuckling under his breath, Genji entered the fray with renewed fervor, eager to put an end to it so that they could all go home and he could spend more time kicking Hana’s name off the scoreboards. 

At one point, one of the men dropped their gun in favor of aiming a high kick at Genji’s temple, to which the crouching dragon responded by clamping onto the heel of its adversary and tossing the screaming soldier over its shoulder, where he landed directly on the other, wiping them both out. Genji, who’d had his arms up to defend himself, merely shrugged at the tangle of limbs on the ground before whipping out a handful of shuriken and responding in kind. 

Eager to help, Hana unholstered her pistol, only to pause when 76 turned his head to yell sharply up at her, “Stay out of it until your MEKA reforms. We’ve got it handled down here.” Except they didn’t, really. Even the strongest fighters could fall to overwhelming numbers in a pit. 

Without his realizing, a Talon agent he’d merely incapacitated rose to tackle him on his blindside, but before 76 could swing around, the man’s temple bloomed a crimson flower, and Hana shouted down, her pistol still poised and smoking, “You really think it’s the suit that makes me dangerous, old man?” And 76 nodded, wordlessly conceding her point. 

In the end, it took about three hours worth of relentless pushing and several more rocket barrages from above before what remained of the Talon base was subdued, captured, and ready for transport to the nearest detention facility. 

Exhausted, sweaty, and covered in grime, they piled into the dingy cargo plane Winston sent to pick them up like it was heaven on earth. Once they were all seated and the plane was ready for take-off, Hana shot the cowboy sitting directly across from her a smirk, “Bet you’ll never guess who rode a dragon today.”

Though his brows arced briefly in surprise, his gaze flitting to the dragon lying peacefully on the floor, McCree recovered quickly enough to lean forward to respond with a knowing grin, “Blew up your mech again, didn’t ya, hotshot?” D.Va crossed her arms with a huff. The dragon’s ears twitched. “Look, it’s all well and good,” McCree continued, “but try not to do it too often, okay? Lord knows, you don’t need a dragon to be a princess.”

Slowly, the dragon rose to stand on all fours with a yawn that was just a tad too pointy to be innocuous, padded over to D.Va, and then climbed to sit on her lap. “No!” She protested, attempting to push the large reptile off, but to little avail, as it barely seemed to notice. “You’re too heavy for this! Get down!” 

Taking in the scene with barely concealed amusement, Genji unbuckled his seatbelt to help the girl out. “Come on, Hanzo,” he wrapped his arms around the beast’s torso and gave it hard tug, “you’re not exactly a delicate flower, you know?” Apparently offended by the implication, the dragon bopped the ninja with its snout, before settling down as though it fully planned to spend the remainder of the trip lying down on a very vocal and irritated pillow. 

“Hey, Hana?” The ninja and the complaining internet sensation turned to look at McCree, who seemed thoughtful as he rubbed his beard, “You think maybe he’s waiting for you to say you’re be more careful?” The dragon’s long and semi-translucent ears perked up while Hana gaped at the cowboy in blatant disbelief.

“Fine,” she groused after a time. “I’ll be more careful and only blow up my MEKA if it’s an emergency, which I was totally doing anyway... but this means I get free rides when we’re at the base, okay?”

After tilting its head as though to consider the sincerity of her promise, the dragon uncurled from its coiled position to step gracefully onto the floor, allowing Hana to fill her lungs with a deep breath of relief while Genji groused that this was exactly why people around the base kept referring to Hanzo as his weird blue dog. Or maybe that was mostly Jesse’s fault, but with stunts like that, Hanzo definitely wasn’t blameless. 

Though Hanzo had returned to his former prone position, with his head resting between his paws, a low growl reverberated from within the dragon’s chest at the grumbling. Folding his arms over his chest, Genji added crossly, “Look, if you were properly scary, this wouldn’t be happening. Why don’t you try roaring or snapping or something?” He flailed his arms. “Scare them a little!” 

After a prolonged silence, during which the pair continued to match their wills through heated stares, the dragon turned its back to him with a huff and rolled over. 

Not willing to drop the subject when the alternative was letting Hanzo win this round, Genji gently nudged the dragon with a sly wink, “Or you could let me take a nap so I can show you how its done?” In answer, Hanzo’s tail whipped around to swat him soundly on the shoulder. It wasn’t an unexpected reaction, yet Genji was surprised by how deeply the disappointment cut, especially since he’d made the offer mostly in jest. 

They were both startled when Hana asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, sensing that she was missing something

“Yeah, you know, we could talk about that, or we could talk about…” McCree floundered, looking to the ninja and his dragon for some assistance, though none seemed forthcoming, so eventually settled with the admittedly lame and unconvincing,” something else?”

Brown eyes glittering with mischief, Genji stretched lazily over the dragon’s back, clearly unconcerned about upsetting the creature, and for good reason, as it made no move to dislodge him, and indeed, barely seemed to notice the additional weight. 

“Okay.” The ninja nodded encouragingly. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Well,” McCree drew out the word with a long drawl, “we could talk about a pair of brothers I know who are terrible and no help whatsoever.”

“Ah,” Genji said solemnly, his chin placed on the backs of the hands interlocked beneath it as an innocent smile spread across his still youthful face, “a fictional story. My favorite kind.”

“What don’t you tell them about yourself, McCree,” 76 called from the passenger’s seat. “This team could do with some cautionary tales.”

While McCree ducked his head to conceal a scowl, D.Va pulled a face. “Ugh. Who’d want to talk about a stinky old cowboy?” 

For a moment, the cowboy simply regarded her with an odd look, before his lines began to soften into something not-quite happy, and he pulled from his pants pocket a folded pieced of paper with his likeness drawn on the front. Holding it up proudly, he asked, “Haven’t you seen the signs? There ain’t a soul in the West that don’t want a piece of this.” 

The dragon snorted while Genji rolled onto his back, arms splayed out to the sides in a dramatic fashion, and D.Va wrinkled her nose. “ _Ew_ , yuck. Old man joke.”

 

Over the past few weeks, Genji had begun to notice a subtle change in his brother. While his refusal to transform during the day remained unchanged, any reluctance on his part to allow Genji to initiate the transformation at night had gradually begun to dissipate. He brought it up when they returned to base, as once dinner was finished, Hanzo trotted contentedly to their shared quarters, barely waiting for him to catch up. 

Chuckling quietly, Genji jogged to keep pace. “Any particular reason why you’re not putting up as much of a fuss as usual, _anija?_ ”

Of course there was no answer, they hadn’t had a true conversation in nearly a decade, but Hanzo’s ears flattened impatiently, the way they sometimes did when he was honestly upset, causing Genji to relent for the time being. It wasn’t like they both didn’t know the reason for the dragon’s newfound happiness, anyway.

The door opened a crack, allowing Hanzo to shoot in, a blur of blue and rippling scales that eventually settled in a rigid sitting position on the armchair like a guardian statue at a temple. Rolling his eyes at his brother’s antics, Genji strode to his closet to retrieve his nightclothes, before settling in at the desk to write his daily letter on a piece of blank parchment while Hanzo silently watched over his shoulder.

 

McCree wasn’t sure why his feet kept bringing him to the Shimada’s door every night, and yet here he was again, this time with a bottle of sake. 

“Hey, Athena?” He waited a second for the AI to respond, before continuing, “You gonna tell Winston about this?”

Immediately, a feminine and modulated voice trickled down from the speakers, “I should think not, Agent McCree.” He grinned sheepishly to placate the mild note of offense in her tone. “What Overwatch agents choose to do in the privacy of their quarters is not his concern.”

Winking, McCree tipped his hat, “Thanks, darlin’.” Then he pressed his thumb to the scanner, causing it to blink green, and pushed open the door. Inside, he found Genji already fast asleep on the bed, his shorter mane of vibrant green hair swept over his back and his snout, causing it to lift occasionally when he snored through his nose. 

Hanzo, on the other hand, was reading a letter with a dimly lit cellphone screen. “It seems you all had a very long and exciting day today,” he observed without looking up to see who’d walked in, his eyes still scanning the page. “No wonder Genji’s exhausted.”

Shrugging, McCree placed the bottle of sake on the desk. “Well, that, and somebody doesn’t let us get any shuteye on the trips back.”

“Yes, because a stranger appearing without warning amongst your company would go over so very well.” There was a lamp on the desk that McCree moved to switch on, only to let his hand fall when Hanzo subtly shook his head. “The light may wake him. We were raised to be sensitive to such changes in the environment.” And so he settled onto the mattress, his usual seat, though he was considering dragging in a chair from his room, while Hanzo opened a file on the phone to view that day’s photographs. Peering over his shoulder, McCree caught a glimpse of a selfie with Genji taking up most of the picture in the foreground, his arms wrapped around Lucio, and in the background, Hana had one arm wrapped a long-suffering dragon while the other threw up a peace sign.

“Do you remember that?” He wondered aloud, half-expecting Hanzo to ignore the question, the way he sometimes did when he felt McCree was overstepping. But this time, he merely hummed softly as he thought it over, and the cowboy waited, taking in the way in which the phone’s screen illuminated the weary lines on his face and the silvery strands of hair at his temples. 

Finally, Hanzo turned to him and said, “It does not feel like a memory so much as a half-forgotten dream. The details escape while the general feeling remains.” His darkened and glittering gaze falling upon the sleeping dragon breathing evenly on the mattress, he continued, “In that way, I could just as easily and as truthfully say that I have not left my brother’s side,” he reached for the shallow porcelain cup that Jesse held out to him, and rotated it distractedly in his hands, “as I could that I have not seen or spoke to him in a very long time.”

After a period of time where neither of them spoke, allowing the silence to draw out like poison flowing from a wound, Hanzo pulled up the sleeves of his kimono to grasp the ceramic _tokkuri_ by its bulbous base, and pour its clear liquid into the cowboy’s cup, followed by his own. 

That was enough of melancholy for one night.

 

Eyes going wide, Hanzo straightened with a look of shock. “She didn’t!” 

The flask was long empty, as they were now a quarter way through a bottle of whiskey, as was apparent by their more frequent lapses when it came to keeping their voices down. 

Actually, by this point, McCree had entirely given up, taking the occasional growl from the grumpy dragon on the bed in stride. “Yes! I woke up with 3-inch neon pink talons glued to my fingernails and no way to get them off until after the mission. Even the rogue omnics laughed at me.”

Peering curiously at McCree’s close-trimmed nails, Hanzo muttered,“Why did you not simply pull them off?”

McCree reared back with a hearty chuckle. “You ever try pulling off acrylic nails, darlin’? It takes skin with it.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, before adding with a wink, “Plus, if we’re bein’ real honest here, I looked mighty fine.” 

The corners of Hanzo’s mouth twitched with amusement, his hand lifted halfway as though he’d meant to hide his mirth and then aborted the attempt. There was a heavy flush in his cheeks, a shine in his eyes, and for the first time since McCree first spotted him sitting by the window, the cowboy saw him, not as something mystical or ethereal, but as a man like any other, and the revelation stunned him. 

Unaware of the shift occurring in the cowboy’s perspective, Hanzo allowed his attention to drift to the sleeping dragon with a mildly accusatory expression, “I suppose painted talons may be a shared experience of ours. My brother believes it is funny to sometimes paint my claws when I change.” 

Blinking rapidly to snap himself out of his thoughts, McCree quickly processed what Hanzo had said. “Guess that kid’s got a funny bone or two in his body, after all.”

Hanzo snorted. “He certainly thinks he is hysterical.” 

McCree grinned as the dragon’s ears flicked in its sleep and it let out a huge sigh,“Your ears ringing, buddy?”

Outside, light began to illuminate the horizon with a soft glow, and the stars faded while birdsong drifted from the treetops. 

Setting his glass down on the table, Hanzo furrowed his brow, clearly upset. “I am being selfish,” it spilled from his lips in a near whisper, like a secret. “I covet this time, yet because of that, Genji is robbed of the opportunity to bond with his teammates.” In truth, it had been a very long while since Hanzo had looked to his return to human form with anticipation, so long that he could not precisely recall when it had occurred or even if it had. Yet even though he’d insisted that Genji retain his normal sleep cycle and interact with the world as a human during the day, Hanzo had been forced to realize during their stay at the base that reading and writing letters was no longer enough; he was starved for conversation. 

“He spends the entire day with us,” McCree pointed out. “It’s not like you can keep him awake for the rest of his life, Hanzo.” 

And Hanzo knew that, partly because he’d tried, “But nor should I allow myself to be content when he sleeps.” He rested his head in his hands. “This curse should have never fallen upon him. It has isolated him, forced him to keep himself distant.” A church bell chimed in the town, and Hanzo straightened, allowing his hands to fall into his lap as the sudden intensity of his too bright gaze fell on McCree, pinning him. “Though it may not seem like it, he is a social creature, Jesse McCree. He needs friends and companionship to survive.”

Swallowing down an unexpected lump in his throat, McCree hoarsely replied, “And what about you?” 

Just then, a cock crowed to announce the coming morning, and Hanzo pushed himself out of his seat to stride to the bedside, where Genji’s tail swayed, and gave the feathery tuft at the end a firm tug, causing the dragon to shoot to his feet with a yelp. Unimpressed, Hanzo told the startled and groggy dragon, “The sun has risen. In a few hours, it will be time for you to go down to breakfast.” As the dragon continued to stare blankly at him with Genji’s eyes, apparently waiting for something, Hanzo groaned, leaning forward to give it a hard shove. "Move."

The dragon shuffled to the side to allow him space, while McCree mused, his own thoughts already traveling to his own neglected bed, “Should you really be talking to a great and dignified dragon like that?”

“Tell me when you see one and I shall treat it with due respect.” 

Once Hanzo was laid out in a horizontal position and had successfully closed his eyes, the green dragon proceeded to step on his back, resulting in an audible crack, and Hanzo screamed curses into his pillow. The pair were still at it, with Genji snapping playfully while Hanzo picked up a pillow and threw it at him, by the time McCree had gathered his things and slipped out to catch a few winks, but Hanzo must have found a way to sleep at some point, because Genji was indeed present at breakfast a few hours later, though he yawned loudly at regular intervals, throwing dirty looks at the smug-looking dragon curled up under the table.

 

It was on one of the rare occasions that they were separated, with Hanzo resting in the control room while Winston searched the news and less public channels for alarming patterns of criminal activity, that Genji managed to meet with the elusive Ana Amari. It wasn’t that she wasn’t present for the group meals or the meetings or the missions, it was just that whenever Genji attempted to talk with her in private, she vanished like a tear in the sea. 

When the day finally came, however, it wasn’t so much he’d found her as she’d waited in the hallway for him, then demanded to know why he was following her. 

And when faced with the stern and brusque older woman, the legendary sniper of Overwatch, recently believed to be dead, Genji felt his mouth go dry as thoughts seemed to slip from his head. He worried for a moment that he would make a fool of himself, but then he thought about all his most recent experiences with Overwatch and its eclectic members, and reminded himself why he’d been searching for her in the first place. Swallowing down his nerves, Genji said, “I apologize if I seemed too forward, Amari-san, but I was hoping that there was something you might be able to help me with.” She raised a single brow, silently inviting him to continue. “What do you know about curses?”

“I know there are many kinds of curses, Agent Shimada, not all of them magical in nature. Some we place upon others out of anger or spite, and some we place upon ourselves. What kind of curse are you referring to?”

Tapping his fingers against his thigh as he thought back to that night at the shrine, Genji answered, “Something powerful… and old.” He frowned. “A punishment, I think.” 

Ana nodded like what he’d told her was entirely reasonable, even expected. “And why is breaking it so important to you? Would it not be easier to let things be?”

To let them be, and spend the rest of his life robbing Hanzo of his. 

Once they had listened, rapt, as their father had regaled them with tales of ancient gods and those who served them. Now, those same gods had taken something from them, and it was time for them to give it back. Steeling his resolve, Genji straightened his back to meet the sniper’s amber gaze without flinching, “There is someone in my life who I have not spoken to in a decade, despite the length of time they have spent at my side, and I miss him. More than I once believed I could. To stand in front of him as I am, there is nothing I would not do.” Including taking the fight to the gods themselves, if that was what it took. 

Gradually, the sniper’s stern features began to soften, and she reached forward to ruffle his hair.“You want to break the curse, and that is a good first step.” Stepping back, she retrieved a small purple vial from within her tan overcoat, “However, if that were enough, the curse would already be broken. Take this,” and she placed it on Genji’s palm, watching as his fingers curled around it. “It is a sleeping draught. Use it at your own discretion.” 

Shrugging, she added, “See if you can’t get your stubborn brother to spend some time with the rest of us.”

After she had turned to leave and taken several strides, Genji regained his wits enough to call after her, “Wait! How did you…?”

She paused to look over her shoulder, a hand pressed against her mouth to obscure a smile. “Oh, it was not hard. You boys are not as sneaky as you’d like to think.” 

And with that, she departed, leaving Genji speechless.

 

He figured out after a bit of trial and error that the draught guaranteed him a solid eight hours in his transformed state, which also meant Hanzo couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard he tried, and Genji did feel a little bad about that, but hoped that the friendship he was forging with the cowboy made up for it. It got to the point where Genji knew he’d be upset with McCree if he didn’t show up, which wasn’t really fair to the man, but since he always seemed to come without fail, if Genji’s blurred recollections of the nights and Hanzo’s letters were any indication, he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the what-if’s for too long. 

Everything was going well, so why overthink it?

And maybe soon, if things continued along this path, something would change. 

The only thing Genji didn’t account for were the missions, where Hanzo often kept him up for days and there wasn’t anything Genji could do about it, not when the majority of his teammates were unaware of their transformations. Worst case scenario, they might actually try to shoot Hanzo. 

So they stuck it out in Russia for three days without rest, and while Hanzo in his dragon form could likely continue indefinitely under such conditions, Genji was quickly worn down. It started with him growing more sullen as he struggled to use his energy sparingly, and was followed by a decrease in focus, which directly impacted his aim and reaction time.

It wasn’t a problem before, when it was only them, and so it hadn’t really come up, but now, Genji was beginning to see how extraordinarily difficult it was going to be to keep their curse a secret without inadvertently endangering themselves or their teammates. They were out in the snow, fending off sniper fire, when a distant stinging in Genji’s side tugged him out of his exhausted haze, and he hissed, looking down at his abdomen to see scarlet bleeding through his layers. 

He didn’t remember dropping to one knee, only that the ground was closer than it had been a second ago, and in his ear voices screamed his name, voices that blended together into incoherent white noise, along with the explosions and gunfire, but above that white noise, a undulating snarl began to rise, and it chased him into the darkness.

 

Not all of them saw Genji fall. Some were preoccupied with ducking for cover between cars or in the alleys, but all of them felt it, an absence yawning where once there had been energy and life. It did not mean he was dead, only that wherever they were, whatever they were doing, they needed to find him, and fast. 

76 tucked his pulse rifle against his chest and sprinted, passing up a chance to take out the omnics surrounding him in favor of barreling through them through brute strength alone, and followed the streak of bright blue curving over the rooftops of cars to where Tracer crouched by his side, supporting him while the dragon anxiously pressed its snout against his cheek, emitting a low and quiet keening. 

The omnics were converging on their position. 

Activating his comm, 76 yelled, _Tracer, you need to get out of there!_

Her head jerked up, darting back and forth as she looked for him beyond the automatons, and when at last their eyes met, he was able to see her miserably shake her head. 

With a growl rumbling in its chest, the dragon arced its back to snap at the closest automaton, before whipping around to lung for the neck of the barrel-chested bot. The omnic screeched as it went down, and the dragon’s massive jaws crushed and ripped through its metal exoskeleton to chomp down on the tubing beneath, and when again the dragon raised its head to move on to its next foe, hydraulic fluid and oil spilled from its fangs. 

Upon seeing what happened to the first to approach, the remaining automatons halted their approach, and a rain of bullets pelted the dragon’s flank. Genji cried out, his voice a weak, feeble thing amongst the gunfire, but the furious beast didn’t appear to be fazed, as it streaked forward like a bolt of lightning, yanking off limbs, shredding metal and circuitry with claws that met no resistance. 

Leaping over the heaps of scrap the creature was leaving behind, 76 charged in to lend it a hand, though it seemed to be doing fine on its own. Together, they halved the forces, leaving about six left that remained to fight because that was what their programming demanded they do. The soldier’s rifle whined, smoking his hands from overuse. It needed time to charge and cool, but if the way Genji’s head kept lolling against Tracer’s shoulder as he fought to stay awake was any indication, the ninja needed an immediate evac. There wasn’t time to rest. 

And just as that thought crossed his mind, just as he braced himself to take on the remaining force with his bare hands if that was what it came to, the standing omnics fell lifelessly to the ground.

From behind their collapsed forms, McCree gave a cheery wave.

A startled gasp arrested the solider’s attention, however, and he spun around to see Lena staring in open-mouthed horror as green scales crawled over Genji’s skin, covering his limbs, which gradually contorted as muscles and bones began to ripple and shift. His nose flattened, melding seamlessly with his protruding snout, and his vibrant spikes lengthened, growing into an impressive mane that followed his spine. There was a flash of brilliant white light, and then gone was the young man lying in Tracer’s lap, and in his place rested an injured dragon.

That was not the only change, however, because where the azure dragon had once stood, now a Japanese man in traditional garb blinked dazedly at his hands, apparently disbelieving of his senses. 

Ignoring McCree’s shout, 76 pressed the barrel of his pulse rifle against the stranger’s temple. Slitted eyes traveled languidly to look at him, and then the man’s lips curled, baring his teeth. “Who are you?” The soldier demanded, increasing the pressure until the man exhaled in a pained hiss.

Before it could escalate, McCree rushed forward to shove the rifle down and place himself between them. 

“Get out of the way, McCree,” 76 snarled.

And McCree moved, but only to place himself more firmly between them. “This is Genji’s brother, hoss. I can vouch for him.” 

The soldier hesitated, but not for long. Surging forward, he sneered through his mask, “And you didn’t think to tell us there was an unregistered combatant on the base?!”

Planting his palms on his chest to force the vigilante to step off, McCree shot back with an irritated, “Ah, come off it. Genji told you about Hanzo the second he walked through the door. Not his fault none of us believed him.” Then with a mirthless grin, he added, “Now last I checked, you weren’t actually the boss of me, so you do what you want, but Han, Lena, and I are getting Genji back to Watchpoint.” He paused, uncertainty flickering over his features. “It cool if I speak for you, Lena?”

She offered them a small and tired smile as her arms tightened protectively around the dragon in her care, “No worries, luv. Course I’m going with ya.”

While they ironed out the details of their plan, Hanzo gradually distanced himself from the group. He felt anger at himself for allowing Genji’s health and focus to deteriorate. Because of that lapse in judgment, not only had Genji been wounded, but his comrades now knew about their curse, which meant that soon they would be chased away or made to leave. 

A glinting in the dirt, glass instead of metal, caught his eye, and he bent to retrieve a small vial from the debris. It was a sleep draught, he realized, which explained how Genji had been ignoring his attempts to wake him over the past several days. Wordlessly, he tucked it within the fabric of his kimono.

 

When the helicopter came, Hanzo and McCree carried Genji in and laid him on the floor. They’d already bandaged the wound as best they could, but it was still seeping slowly, and the dragon’s breathing was getting harsher and more labored as time past. Athena and Winston piloted the plane from the base, calculating the fastest routes with the least turbulence, and all things considered, they completed the journey in record time. Genji was still holding on when they carried him into the clinic, much to Angela’s shock, which left them with the singular problem of her expertise not applying to reptiles. 

“I will do the best I can to save him,” she assured them while 76 activated his biofield to buy Genji some time, surrounding him in a warm and comforting glow. “But he needs surgery and stitches and there isn’t enough time for me to research how to perform lifesaving medical procedures on a _dragon_.” She decided she would improvise, hope for the best and pray that whatever damage was inadvertently done would heal naturally once his life was saved, because standing guard at the threshold of Death’s door was what she did, and even more importantly, she was tired of losing friends.

But improvising and uncertainty wasn’t good enough for Hanzo. He asked her if Genji’s chances would be improved if he were human, then before Angela could answer, retrieved the vial from within his robe, popped open the vial, and swallowed the remaining liquid. Almost immediately, he stumbled, his hands groping for something to hold onto as his legs buckled beneath him, and Angela clutched him, struggling to hold him upright, as she shouted for Athena to alert Winston and get him down to the clinic for a substance analysis test as soon as possible. 

She didn’t know what the man had been thinking, but she’d be damned if she were going to let him die. Bright light consumed the clinic, forcing her to shut her eyes, and when she opened them, in her arms was a groggy creature from myths and fantasy, and on the table was Genji Shimada, still bandaged and unconscious, but very much human.

 

The operation went well. Angela was able to retrieve the bullet and repair the organs it had damaged within a few hours, during which the remainder of Genji's team waited in the room outside with the dragon that refused to move from its spot. While they waited, D.Va and Lucio passed up seats to lie down with the dragon, and while they were surprised when Lena explained to them that the dragon was actually Genji’s brother, they didn’t find the new knowledge upsetting.

Lucio grinned, his head resting on the dragon’s back while D.Va worked her fingers through its mane, “I’ve met a few characters in my life, but none of them could do something like this. Man, I am so lucky I joined this team.”

Her shoulders shaking slightly, D.Va sputtered out a watery laugh. 

The clinic opened not ten minutes later, with Angela stepping out in simple frock and a clean lab coat, and she glowed, a kind smile lighting up her face, “He’s stable.” And the waiting room was sent into chaos. The young recruits enveloped the dragon with hugs before moving onto their teammates, and Reinhardt picked Amari up, tears streaming from the old knight’s eyes as she patted him on the shoulder. 

Pulling down the brim of his hat, McCree huffed a sigh of relief, while 76 remained stubbornly stoic with Lena’s arms jubilantly wrapped around his torso and shaking him. Throughout it all, the dragon didn’t move or look up, not until the sedatives wore off enough for Genji to be awake and lucid. Then it padded in to rest its head on the cot with a chuff, and Genji placed a hand on its brow, before addressing the rest of his teammates with a sheepish grin, “Guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?”

In the following commotion of hugs and tears, the dragon slipped away, darting out the door before anyone could recognize its absence. It was when it was struggling to find an exit, an escape, that a calm and stern voice asked, “Do you plan to shackle your brother to you for the rest of your life?”

The dragon whipped around, its hackles raised, to see the old Egyptian woman, the sniper with the silvery braid and the Eye of Horus tattooed around her eye. She was looking, not at the creature, but at the man within, and the man shrank from her gaze. He did not want to be seen.

Eventually, she gave a weary sigh, and pointed him in the direction of the main exit, the one closest to the cliff that overlooked the beach below. And since the exit was automated, as the majority of the base’s security was devoted to keeping people from places where they shouldn’t be and not preventing them from leaving, it was simple enough for the dragon to wait for the metal doors to slide open and pad outside onto the dirt. 

The sun was out and hanging in the sky, yet the dragon could feel a chill as its claws dug into the cool soil, and wisps of steam billowed from its nostrils.

Behind it, the doors opened with a whoosh as a second body exited the base with a casual swagger, “Little cold for stroll, don’t ya think?”

A low warning growl welcomed the cowboy’s approach. McCree paused in his steps, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Look, Han, I don’t know what the problem is, but Genji’s worried about ya. Why don’t ya come back inside and we can talk about it?” There was no sign that the dragon had even heard him, let alone understood, yet McCree had spent enough time with the Shimadas to know that wasn’t the case. He reached out to grasp the creature by its shoulder, only to pull back with a yelp when Hanzo whipped around so fast he nearly took his hand off. 

In place of the warm brown eyes that had always seemed so intelligent and fond, McCree could now see pupils thinned and cut into slits, with fear and fury and no trace of recognition to be found. 

That night, when Genji slept, Hanzo remained a dragon.

 

“What did your draught do, Amari? He won’t turn back!” 

When Genji found her waiting for him once more outside the kitchen, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to curse her or get on his knees to start begging for a cure. Perhaps it was not befitting of a Shimada scion to entertain the idea of pleading, but frankly he couldn’t have cared less about what was and wasn’t appropriate. He’d gone to Amari for help, and now Hanzo was even more lost to him than he’d been before. 

Placing a gloved hand on his shoulder, she told him as gently as she could, “That is because he refuses to. It was his choice to remain in that form, and if he ever wishes to become a man again, he must let go of the guilt that is trapping him within it.” Increasing the strength of her grip to give a firm and comforting squeeze, she finished,“He must want to be free of it, Genji, and that is not something you or I can force.” 

Averting his gaze as fatigue swept over him, Genji muttered quietly, “I should not have gone to you. It wasn’t perfect before, but… it was better than _this_.” 

“Seeking my aid merely accelerated a process which was already underway.” She patted his shoulder before moving to drift away, leaving him to stand alone. “Give it time, and you shall see what the future holds.” 

After a time, Genji found the strength to return to his quarters. He sat on his bed with his knees pressed against his chest and Hanzo curled up at his side, unaware of the sun sinking below the horizon until the door slid open and McCree strode in with a bottle of sake in one hand and whiskey in the grip of his prosthetic. Genji regarded him blearily, “What are you doing here, McCree?”

“What can I say?” With an insouciant shrug, the cowboy winked and poured a glass of rice wine. “Suppose I’m just a creature of habit.” 

They shared the drinks in silence in the time, the alcohol creating a pleasant warmth in Genji’s stomach, and McCree waited, not bothering to fill it because that wasn’t what the ninja needed right now. 

“Do you know what it’s like to have a sibling, Jesse?”

McCree up to meet Genji’s glassy and earnest gaze, and said, “Can’t say that I do, Shimada.” 

Settling back against his pillow with a sigh, Genji raised his glass of whiskey to the window, as though to see the stars through the amber. Pinpricks of light swirled, and he swallowed hard, his eyes stinging, “It is like… being born into this world with a best friend.” No, that wasn’t quite right. “Growing up I had a tendency to flit about like a restless sparrow, never satisfied with being still, but my brother and my father, they were my home, my very own place to return to.” Expression darkening into a scowl, he continued, “It was never Shimada Castle or Hanamura. I realized that after we ran, because even though I missed my friends and, to be honest,” a huff of subdued laughter slipped past his lips, “my bed, I did not miss my home.” And he ran his hand over the dragon’s back, unaware of the tears spilling down his cheeks as he smiled sadly, “How could I when I had brought it with me?”

Unable to stand it, McCree reached for the shuddering ninja and pulled him in for a hug. Genji’s eyes widened in surprise, then he relaxed, choking on a sob, “I cannot lose him, McCree. I just can’t… I…” 

And McCree stayed until he cried himself dry, then stuck around a while longer, until the ninja was asleep, curled up on the bed like a child with his hand resting on Hanzo’s back. As he rose to leave, McCree regarded the dragon with a long and measuring look, “Han, if there is anything you can do to fix this…” He cut himself off, pulling the brim of his hat down to obscure his features. “No, of course there isn’t. What was I thinking?” Then he left without any word, and faster than he’d entered.

When Genji woke the next morning, the spot beneath where his hand had lain was bare, and the mattress beside him was cold. 

They found Hanzo in the forest after a search that lasted several hours and involved every member of Overwatch. The dragon was only semi-conscious, having succumbed to hypothermia at some point during the night, and they raced him to the clinic, where Angela had a warm bath drawn and waiting for the creature. By the time McCree and Genji lowered Hanzo into the bath, he’d been unresponsive and still for several minutes. While most of the others departed, Genji did not leave. He did the best he could to rub warmth back into the dragon’s limbs, to coax a response out of him, but was eventually forced to join the others after the second time Mercy pressed her fingers against the dragon’s neck to search for a pulse. 

Later on, when Angela stepped out of the clinic with her head hung low and her fists clenched at her sides, Genji didn’t stick around to hear what she had to say. He already knew. And he turned around and ran, tearing down the hallways like a fox outrunning a hunt, determined to escape, and then he burst through the exit doors to gulp down fresh, cool air. 

A crash of waves attracted his attention, and he strode cautiously to the edge of the bluff. All at once, the rage and grief within him swelled. “You absolute fool!” He roared above the surf. “How dare you leave me here? Did you really think this would make me happy, _anija?_ ” After everything they’d been through together, after everything they’d survived, for it to end like this, with Hanzo dying alone in the woods while he slept in his bed. He couldn’t accept it. He wouldn’t. With a great shudder that tore violently through his body, Genji raised his head and screamed with his whole heart, “I am never going to forgive you for this, do you understand? You took my home away from me!”

“I missed you, too, little brother.” 

Slowly, the tears still spilling from his eyes, Genji turned to see Hanzo staring back at him, looking awkward and unsure in the scarlet serape wrapped around his shoulders. 

He tried to speak again, only to be cut off by a wordless cry when Genji threw himself at him, tackling him into the dirt.


	35. beneath the sakura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ronin, who has wandered far and wide in search of peace, finally returns home.

There were few left in the world who could claim to have seen the ronin’s true face, as he wandered the world with his features hidden by a mask of worn steel and the perpetual grin cut into the metal. Although his earth-tone cloak and the scarf wrapped comfortably around his neck were simple, patched and faded from use and time, and though the wide-brimmed conical hat of woven straw might have suggested humble origins, it would have taken a miracle for a man of such means to come across the blade which adorned his back by chance. Unlike his mask, the ronin’s strange and deadly possession was perpetually polished, the leather of its hilt cared for and regularly repaired. 

When asked about the katana, the ronin would merely dip his head, and with a smile in his voice, claim that it was a family heirloom, one which he was not quite ready to part with. 

It was after many years of travel that the ronin found himself once more in the country of his birth. None recognized his visage, and he offered his name to none, insisting that he was merely a wanderer, and thus would be gone as swiftly as he had come. 

The villagers accepted this, for they knew better than to question the presence of strangers in their midst, as fate had a tendency to smile upon hospitality. It was while the ronin was watching the village children play in the muddy dirt road after a rain shower that one of the women told of how there had been a time, not so long ago, when the villagers had been too frightened of the bandits roaming the countryside to let their children stray from their homes. 

Humming softly, the ronin nodded without comment, remembering the lawless chaos that had descended upon the land and its people, the burning and the pillaging. 

The fear. 

Whispers reached his ears of a guardian spirit, an Oni that chased away the bandits, and brought good fortune to the villagers. Some believed that the creature had been a lost samurai once, others a man blessed by the gods. It was said that the came when he committed an act so terrible that the gods twisted their blessing into a curse, thus forever denying him peace. Whatever its origins, it was generally agreed upon that the youkai meant them no harm, and so its was left to its own devices, though the villagers would leave it offerings of rice and sake from time to time. 

“And do you believe these stories?” The ronin often asked, to which most would reply that they did not know. Yet for a decade their crops had flourished, their weather remained perpetually fair, raiders and thieves shunned their land. It was clear that they had fallen into the favor of some manner of spirit, in which case, it would be folly to ignore its gift. 

He was pointed in the direction of a field of cherry blossoms, each of them healthy and blooming with a beautifully rich hue, despite being out of season. He settled down with a bottle of plum wine at the base of one such tree, where he carefully placed a pair of shallow cups upon the ground, then watched as the petals at his sides lifted and swirled in a gentle gust.

“Are you sure you should be out here alone?” The ronin raised his head to see a man looking down at him, the side of his mouth quirked in an amused half-smile. He was dressed in traditional garments, a dark _kyudo gi_ patterned with clouds and lightning, and a golden ribbon that tied back his raven black hair. “There are rumors,” the man continued, his gaze rising to settle on the preternatural abundance of flowers falling steadily from the branches stretching over them, “that an Oni wanders these parts. It is said that they will consume anything in their path,” dark eyes glittering, he raised a brow at the _tokkuri_ brimming with good sake, “especially those unwary enough to drink in solitude.”

Huffing a quiet laugh, the ronin held up a cup and replied, “Is that so? In that case, why don’t you join me?” 

Several emotions flitted across the man’s face, each of them shut down and stomped out before they could be fully formed, leaving an eerie blankness in their wake, before he at last settled beside the ronin with a sigh, and accepted the cup that was extended to him. A single petal floated lazily down to land in the center of the clear liquid. The man considered it for a moment before sampling a taste of the alcohol. It was wonderfully fresh. 

His own beverage untouched, the ronin observed, “Your new appearance suits you.”

The man stiffened, his back and muscles going rigid, the grip around his cup nearly crushing before he forced himself to relax, and even then, the ronin could still make out the crimson streaks beneath his eyes, the shifting and shuddering of his pupils, the pale snakes curling around his bicep. 

“You know well that it is an illusion.”

The Oni rose to his feet, refusing to even look at the ronin or the metal mask he wore, but hesitated when a hand shot out to grip his sleeve, and a plaintive voice asked, “Then will you show me your true face?” In his mind’s eye, the youkai could perfectly imagine the ronin’s expression in that moment, knew that it was a mixture of desperation, pleading, and hope, a combination towards which he was exceptionally weak. Gradually, the natural stain of flesh melted from his limbs, revealing the blue of a starless night, the sheen of a raven’s wing. The azure dragon on his bicep shivered before erupting into a crimson Oni, its large and imposing figure wreathed in the serpents glimpsed before, and the ribbon fell, fluttering to the ground as his long hair broke free of its binding to cascade down his back. 

When the transformation was complete, the ronin was surprised to find himself feeling glad for the mask he wore, as he doubted he would have been able to conceal his shock otherwise, yet even with pupiless eyes lit by moonlight, it was the tentatively open and vaguely apologetic expression the youkai wore, which was so unmistakably _human_ , that truly took the ronin’s breath away. 

As time passed and the ronin remained silent, the Oni’s features gradually hardened, becoming rueful and shuttered. He moved to pull away, his form already growing vaporous and indistinct at the edges. When the ronin attempted once more to hold onto him, his hands passed fruitlessly through the youkai’s limbs, as they broke into incorporeal clouds at his touch. 

Choking on a mournful cry, he plunged his palms into the cool mist, “You are my brother still, _anija_.” The youkai’s milky white gaze bore into him, searching his soul for the truth of his words, but the ronin did not shirk from it. Instead, he ripped the metal mask from his face, making visble not only the scars that he bore, but the determined set to his jaw, the steely resolution in his eyes. “And I am still yours. This does nothing to change that.” 

And the youkai’s gaze gentled, at once familiar and foreign with a remembered fondness and an ancient sorrow, “I thought you might say that.” The wind blew once more, stronger and fiercer than before. It plucked the petals off the ground and from the boughs, filling the ronin’s vision with spots of pink and white as he struggled to keep his eyes open, but when the gale ended, the ronin discovered that he was once more sitting alone at the base of the cherry tree, his lap covered in a layer of blossoms, as though he had merely dreamt of the encounter. 

When he bent to retrieve his cups, however, he noticed that one of them had been emptied recently, as a petal clung to its sake-slicked bottom, while the other, his own, remained untouched. It was not until he moved to stand that he felt the shift of fabric brushing his shoulder, and reached up to touch the smooth texture of the golden ribbon tied in his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for the incredible support and encouragement this series has received. Oh, it's not over yet - there's still a ways to go - but I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate the feedback. 
> 
> So, Halloween is coming, huh? I was hoping to get one more ghost story posted, but it seems like I'm not going to have time before the end of the month, so I hope you all have a wonderful Halloween. Dress up, eat candy, and get scared :) Have a great time!


	36. Genji is Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Genji's death, Hanzo wandered. He was never alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I know that nothing good lives in me,_   
>  _for I have the desire to do what is good,_   
>  _but I cannot carry it out._

The world didn’t end in fire, nor did it in ice. For Hanzo, it ended gradually, with harsh words and building resentment, and then all at once, with a thrill of adrenaline and a choice he could never unmake. 

He was a coward.

After the final strike that determined the victor of their battle and the future of the clan, he didn’t stay to witness Genji’s final breath, or grant him the mercy of ending his suffering. Instead, he took several steps back, blood clinging to the soles of his sandals, his mind distantly registering the discordant clatter of his katana hitting the ground, then broke into a blind sprint. It led him through corridors he’d walked his entire life, yet could no longer recognize, as where once they had granted him comfort in their familiarity, now they were monstrous. They stretched and shrank and howled at his transgressions, and the people in them - his family - bore no faces, just a blank expanse of uninterrupted skin.

They reached for him, clinging to his stained sleeves, their garbled voices asking questions Hanzo couldn’t understand, and with a pained cry he shook them off, pushing past them in his search for sanctuary. Eventually, his feet led him to a single unoccupied room, which he quickly ducked into and then locked the door, shutting out the featureless demons and the rest of the world. 

His eyes set only on the farthest corner of the bedroom, tucked partially behind the mattress, he crossed the floor in several breathless strides before curling in on himself with his back pressed firmly against the wall and his hands clapped over his ears. He refused to open his eyes, refused to listen, and tucked his knees in closer, making himself as small as possible in the space he occupied, because what he wanted, more than anything, was to disappear within himself, to become void, an abyss of unfeeling nothing. 

Hours passed and stretched. The voices of the elders and the castle staff made themselves known, yet Hanzo remained silent and still. Even when the horrible pounding on the door began, and the calls ran the spectrum from mildly disappointed to thinly veiled pleading and desperation, he didn’t move. The elders wanted him to justify what he’d done, to unite the clan around it.

And if he left, they would make him. 

Instead, he ignored the burn of thirst in his throat, the tacky cling of the blood still coating his hands, and in the absence of the peace required for meditation, reached for that state of nothingness and cessation where no thought could survive. Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant losing his mind. 

_You can’t ignore them forever, aniki._

It was like his lids were being pried open with a crowbar, his head forced up to see the grain in the wood at his feet, and the clothes strewn about the room, gaudy and colorful and modern. And sneering down at him from a chair placed next to a small table was his little brother, his spiked hair dyed green as freshly clipped grass in the spring, and his favorite scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. And Genji smirked, a single line of crimson spilling from his lips. 

_You know, the elders never liked me, so I guess I should have seen this coming, but… I didn’t expect it to be you, Hanzo._ He shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing into dangerous snake-like slits. _Call me crazy, but I thought you loved me._

And in that moment, Hanzo achieved not the emptiness he’d desired, but an agonizing crash of emotions that whited him out, paralyzing his lungs, seizing his still beating heart in a corpse’s cold grip. He couldn’t speak, and so he didn’t, merely watched without blinking as the apparition’s accusing stare continued to pin him in place like tacks in a butterfly’s wings. 

A low keening slipped past Hanzo’s remaining vestiges of composure as he buried his head in his hands, fingers fisting around the tangles of his unkempt hair. Even without looking up, he knew that the gaze with which Genji regarded him was pitiless and empty. 

That was fine, though. It was nothing less than he deserved. 

Eventually, Genji turned his back on him with a sigh, as though Hanzo were being exceptionally difficult. Sometimes, he would blink out of existence, only to appear again mere inches from Hanzo with sclera made scarlet from burst vessels, weeping lacerations, and raw burns. 

_Why’d you do it?_ He was sitting cross-legged on his mattress now, a peevish grimace distorting his features as he casually lifted his favorite white gi to gauge the severity of the slash Hanzo had left in it. _And don’t say it was for my own good because that’s bull and we both know it._

Though it came out rough and hoarse, both from disuse and from thirst, Hanzo managed to quietly ask the specter or figment of his imagination wearing his brother’s face, “Why are you here?”

And something flickered in Genji’s expression, brief and intense as a solar flare, yet before Hanzo could rally his mental faculties to put a name to it, his skin and lips became ashen, and with a grinning, ghoulish face, the apparition snarled, _Do not pretend you do not know._

To torment him. To make him wish that he had died, instead. 

_Bingo._ The specter chimed in cheerily. _Do you want to play shogi?_

Startled by the sudden request and shift in tone, Hanzo jerked his head in disbelief, locking eyes with the spirit that once again appeared healthy and whole, as Genji once had in life. He seemed tentatively hopeful, yet braced for disappointment. It was an expression Hanzo had observed so many times before that the sight of it now physically pained him. It took him time to catch his breath, for the ache in his stomach and the stabbing in his temple to fade to something bearable, but when it did, it was to find that Genji hadn’t moved. It seemed that death had taught him what he had never learned in life – patience. 

After a minute of wary contemplation, Hanzo struggled to climb to his feet, one hand on the wall to support when his legs shook treacherously, then gave his answer in the form of a slow nod, and Genji smiled. 

_Cool… You get the board._

 

Their father had gifted Genji with a traditional shogi board before his death, which had been a ridiculous decision, as Genji had never demonstrated the mindset for strategy nor the inclination to learn, but as Hanzo hadn’t dared question their father’s judgment, the beautifully painted set had spent the intervening months gathering dust on the shelf. 

Now, however, Genji regarded the wooden pieces thoughtfully, choosing his moves with uncharacteristic deliberation and forethought, and it wasn’t long before the tides of the game turned irrevocably in his favor. It all felt so surreal to Hanzo, as his hands remembered the weight of the blade, the give of Genji’s flesh, even as they held the delicate pieces. Each sensation was equally real, as though his existence had been split, with part of it rooted in the present while the rest lingered in the past. 

On the third game, however, Hanzo had begun to shake off the effects of his brother’s reappearance to reassert his focus, and the game became more evenly matched, more of a challenge. Almost against his will, the memory of Genji’s death began to lose its stark clarity and immediacy, as the bleeding, broken body was gradually replaced by the lively and animated ninja sitting across from him, ready with a smug grin and a barbed taunt whenever his pile began to grow in size.

They briefly mirrored each other’s scowls when the shouting and pounding from outside resumed, ruining their concentration.

Quickly smoothing his features in an expression of indifference, Genji leaned back casually in his seat, his arms folded behind his head.

_If you really want them to shut up, you could always tell them you’re hanging out with me._

Arcing a brow, Hanzo flatly replied, “They would think me insane.”

_Would they be wrong?_

And Hanzo opened his mouth to volley a retort, before snapping it shut with a definitive click. There was absolutely no proof that he was conversing with Genji’s ghost, and not a hallucination driven by exhaustion or guilt. The question was, of course, did it matter? A whisper in his mind insisted that it did, yet that would mean accepting the reality of Genji’s absence. To accept that he had ruthlessly and brutally torn his little brother from the tapestry of his life with his own two hands, to come to terms with knowing that he had been tested, and failed when it had mattered most?

He couldn’t do it. 

As though sensing his thoughts, a smile just on the border of malicious began to creep up Genji’s pale cheeks. 

Now that he’d decided to embrace the fantasy, Hanzo stepped away from the game to rummage through Genji’s closet for a coat hanger. None of them were free, of course, given the sheer magnitude of their wardrobes, regardless of his little brother’s bad habit of prioritizing his clubbing clothes over his ceremonial and formal wear, Hanzo shook off a sparkling crop top, heedless of Genji’s protests, snapped off the hanger’s head, and proceeded to jam it into the locking mechanism to prevent the security staff from breaking in. Afterwards, he barricaded the door with the bookshelf.

Genji tracked his movements the entire time, his expression curiously blank until Hanzo returned to his seat, after which he wrinkled his nose, waving a hand in front of his face. 

_Maybe you should take a shower? You’re kind of starting to smell._

Frowning with equal parts offense and bewilderment at the normalcy of the observation, Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest in a stubborn refusal to even grace the comment with a response. 

The specter rolled his eyes. 

_You can’t stay here forever, Hanzo. Firstly, this is my room, so you really shouldn’t even be here, and second, you need to get out of this place. Not just out of this room, but out of this town. I don’t care where you go, Hanzo, but you need to leave. ___

____

There was an earnestness to his words that came across as genuine, yet Hanzo could not help but doubt their sincerity. Bitterly and with venom, he demanded, “What do you care if I die here?”

____

And to his surprise, Genji deflated, shrinking in on himself as he’d once done when they were boys. Refusing to look at him, he replied with an affected shrug, _I don’t. But you’re the only person left who cares that I did._

____

After a moment’s hesitation, during which the archer’s thoughts traveled against his will to the nights where Genji had once snuck into his room to outrun the screams from nightmares that siphoned from reality, Hanzo inhaled deeply, before letting it out in the form of a fatigued sigh. 

____

“Okay,” he rasped, rising shakily with his palms braced against his knees as he did so. 

____

_What?_

____

“You win.” He made an attempt to distractedly run his fingers through his hair, only to scowl with displeasure when they became ensnared in tangles. With a hard yank, he pulled his hand free and glared at the midnight black strands that came loose. At this point, he was of half a mind to cut all of it off. Hard gaze flicking to the apparition and its look of hopeful anticipation, he declared with an imperious tone, “Let us leave this place.” 

____

Genji threw his hands up with a cheer, _Heck yeah, going rogue!_ As Hanzo sternly reminded himself that this was not the true Genji, that it couldn’t be because he was dead and gone and it was all his fault, the specter made a show of pretending to pluck credit cards from its - his pockets and shredding them. 

____

It was ridiculous and foolish and completely inappropriate given that he had only just agreed to turn his back on everything he’d ever known for a ghost. 

____

And if that wasn't exactly how his little brother would have behaved in this situation…

____

With a wide grin affixed to his face, one which for once was genuine, Genji tried to swing an arm around Hanzo’s shoulders, apparently forgetting that he was incorporeal as he passed through him, nearly falling flat on his face. And though Hanzo shook his head at the other’s fumbling, he discovered that he couldn’t truly blame him for his forgetfulness, not when it came so distressingly and temptingly easy. 

____

But Hanzo had denied himself such luxuries before. To do so again would make no difference.

____

 

____

Sneaking out in the middle of the night was an age-old past time for Hanzo, the kind of activity he’d declared childish long before he’d ceased to be a child, but the act of muting his steps and keeping to the shadows had never fallen out of practice. Though he knew that walking normally would be less suspicious, even in the middle of the night, he truly did not wish to encounter any of his family. Oh, a part of him feared that they would alert the elders to his emergence, but mostly, he simply did not want to bear the burden of interacting with any of his relatives with the knowledge that they would soon see him as traitor, and thus their next meeting may very well result with one of them meeting their end at the other’s hand. 

____

Having avoided any creaking floorboards that might have given him away, he crept soundlessly into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of green briefly slice through the inky shadows pooling towards the back entrance, the one that led outside to where their weekly shipment of supplies was delivered. 

____

“Hanzo?” Still bent in a crouch, he whipped around to see Akemi staring down at him with wide-eyed disbelief, then she rushed forward to embrace him, stunning him into rigid immobility, as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, and with a voice choked with relief, said, “You’re okay! I never believed...” She was painted with the colors of an inverted night, the shadowed crescents sitting atop her sallow cheeks standing stark against the wanness of her skin. It spoke of sleeplessness and worry, and Hanzo felt the shame rise within him, renewed. Of course Genji’s absence would be felt by those who loved him, as so many had, yet Hanzo had locked himself away to wallow and left them to drown. 

____

But what was he supposed to say? What right did he have to help them through their mourning when Genji’s blood still stained his hands?

____

Shaking her head, Akemi continued, “The elders said you refused to leave his room. They said…” And she lifted her head to look straight into his eyes, a subtle crease appearing in her brow at Hanzo’s distant and generally unresponsive demeanor. Her arms fell to her sides. “They’re saying you killed Genji.” She didn't have to wait long for her answer. The full-body flinch that had Hanzo jerking from her touch said more than he ever could. 

____

Blanching, she pulled away from him with a silence that screamed. His cheek stung. He looked down to see her hand raised, the skin of her palm readied while her eyes glittered with furious tears. “What is wrong with you, Hanzo Shimada?” The blows rained on his arms and chest, featherlight and agonizing. “How could you?” The next time she raised her fist to strike him, he caught it on reflex and she wrenched her hand from his grasp, howling, “He was your brother!” 

____

He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak, then with a blur of movement, he landed a quick strike to the back of her neck to overstimulate her nervous system, and she collapsed as her faculties shut down, falling, though he surged forward to catch her before her head hit the ground. 

____

When he looked up, it was to see Genji staring down at them with a sad expression. As he lowered her safely to the tile, pausing briefly at the sight of the tears clinging to her newly dyed auburn locks. It was a style that Genji had suggested the style to her a lifetime ago, one which she had worn confidently and proudly despite the family’s stifling adherence to tradition, and now after knowing Akemi throughout his childhood and adolescence, after spending nights babysitting her younger sister, Hanzo was faced with the very real possibility that he was never going to see her again. 

____

And she would spend the rest of her life hating him for what he had done.

____

Bending low so that his breath brushed against her ear, Hanzo whispered a hoarse apology that went forever unheard.

____

It felt empty. Meaningless.

____

Finally, after an eternity that fled in an instant, he withdrew to rise to his feet, his face an impassive mask as he strode to join Genji where he waited, feeling instinctively when the Sparrow fell effortlessly into his wake as he passed, silent and closer than his own shadow.

____

 

____

There were series of caves located in the sporadic outcroppings of rock located in Hanamura forest, most of which were abandoned due to the onset of spring, which made them perfect for a fugitive seeking refuge. Though he wouldn’t consider himself an outdoorsman by any means, not when he’d spent most of his life sleeping in a bed that would cost most blue collars a year’s worth of their wages, survival skills had been a part of their training growing up, so he wasn’t entirely out of his depth when it came to sleeping on a stone floor or building a fire, and his talent with the bow came in handy when it came to procuring meals for himself. At first, he’d debated hiding the carcasses he left behind, until he ultimately decided that the animals would erase his tracks more adeptly than he ever could. Thus, whatever he didn’t eat was tossed outside the cave entrance, just far enough that the braver animals wouldn’t feel tempted to intrude. 

____

With his lids and head growing heavier by the minute, Hanzo found himself struggling to remain alert and focused as the skinned hare he’d impaled on a spit continued to roast over the modest fire he’d erected from dried leaves and sticks. 

____

Startled by movement in his periphery, he spun to see Genji’s blurry outline crouched at his side with an unreadable expression. Birdlike, he cocked his head, _When’s the last time you slept, Hanzo?_

____

And if Hanzo concentrated, he could almost imagine that he cared. Instead, he muttered tonelessly, “Including short naps during the day? About three months.”

____

Glancing away, the specter made a unhappy sound, _Look, I’m still here, okay? I’m not going anywhere._

____

And with a weight and darkness in his gaze that no amount of sleep or light could dispel, Hanzo jabbed with flames with the head of the arrow held loosely in his grip, “Is that a promise or a threat?” The fire cracked, shooting an ember onto the dirt, where it pulsed with a reddish glow as it cooled. 

____

_It’s whatever the hell you want it to be, Hanzo._ Slender fingers carded nervously through his verdant locks. _Just go to sleep._

____

There it was, again. Desperation, Frustration. The emotions displayed by someone who cared what happened to him. Hanzo struggled to remember the last time he’d been looked after. Oh, there were those who’d tried, certainly, but they had never been anyone of influence, no one with the authority or sway to force him to rest. “You did not bother yourself with my sleeping habits before,” Hanzo heard himself say bitterly. “Am I supposed to believe that you care more for me now than you did when you lived?” 

____

As he’d expected, Genji’s visage flickered, vacillating from health to a deathly pallor and back again. It was always like this when he was upset. 

____

Regret tasted cold and metallic on Hanzo’s tongue, yet the apology stuck stubbornly in his throat, as though reluctant to come to life at the wrong time, in the wrong place. 

____

Eventually, he settled for curling up by the fire with an arrow’s shaft wedged between his fingertips, and forced his eyes shut. He listened on instinct for the sound of Genji’s movement as he crept towards the cave’s mouth, and upon hearing nothing, wondered if he would ever stop listening. 

____

A scream woke him up not long after – Genji shrieking his name – and alertness came swiftly on the wings of adrenaline, chasing away sleep’s lingering cobwebs as he swiveled frantically for the source of the sound. 

____

At the cave’s entrance, illuminated by moonlight, he spotted Genji sitting with his knees bent and his back pressed against rock wall, confusion in the creases of his brow. 

____

_I didn’t say anything._

____

His unfathomable gaze rose to rest above his shoulder, yet he did not continue and Hanzo did not think so ask. Once the hammering beneath his ribs began to settle, he instead grudgingly resolved to pursue whatever little sleep could be gained, only to soon register the glittering point of a blade held above his neck by an assassin wearing the Shimada crest upon their arm. He jerked violently to the side, rolling as he did so to avoid the blow, yet a lightning bolt of sharp agony sliced through the side of his throat, deep enough that his heartbeat became a countdown. With a defiant, nearly feral snarl, Hanzo planted his feet on his would-be slayer to push them off-balance, then reached into the fire, grabbed a handful of embers, and clapped them against the wound until the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and bursts of stars whited out his vision. In that moment, the only thing he knew for certain was unconsciousness was equivalent to death, so he staggered to his feet with a throat burned and coated with blood, a blistering palm, and an arrow lodged between his fingers. 

____

His dragons writhed sluggishly beneath his skin, as though caught in the throes of a dream, but it was just as well, as Hanzo bore within him no desire to call upon their aid. The ninja standing before him was slender and masculine in build – young, too. Most likely one of their cousins sent to kill the defecting and murderous traitor. Hanzo had been raised apart from his cousins, so though it was unlikely that he would not know the face beneath the mask, there was a chance that their familial bond alone would lack the strength of connection required to rend his soul any further. Or perhaps the truth was that, after destroying the closest bond in his life, there was little else that even killing the family he had sworn to lead and protect could do to destroy him.

____

The thing about fighting with swords that few realize is that the clashes often end well before romanticized period pieces would have their audience believe, as exhaustion set in quickly and a single misstep was all it took for a victor to rise. When only one of the combatants is armed, however, and the element of surprise is lost, the outcome of the duel becomes infinitely trickier to gauge. Desperation makes miracles, after all.

____

Knowing that he was at a disadvantage, Hanzo did not hesitate to throw whatever remaining embers remained into the ninja’s unguarded eyes, causing him to reel, jerking back as his arm came up high to shield his face, while Hanzo darted forward to duck within his range and plunge the arrow’s head deep into the flesh of the assassin’s throat. There was a gurgling cry as the ninja clawed at the shaft, desperate to remove it, though doing so would only damn him sooner. Then he sank bonelessly to the earth, his brown eyes blown wide with fear and panic. 

____

And Hanzo watched it all without comment, until the flailing of his limbs lost their purpose, until the last convulsion passed, and the ninja rested in a prone position that did not speak of peace. 

____

Slowly, he turned from the body to see the Sparrow still sitting at the cave’s mouth, a satisfied smirk curling his ash-colored lips. 

____

_Did you forget I was dead?_

____

 

____

It was some time before the apparition appeared before him again, long enough that the archer began to idly wonder if the vengeful dead could come to feel remorse for their actions. Then one day he appeared again, as smug and talkative as ever, and Hanzo adapted, as he’d learned to, as he would always have to. 

____

No longer could he be the inflexible heir. Now, he was a mercenary and a relic, still keeping up traditions that had died out centuries ago. It was during the intervals between his jobs, the terrible stretches of idle time, that he was almost grateful for the apparition’s chatter, at times even engaging in the old familiar banter that hurt so much less than it once had. 

____

He’d often pondered whether giving in to madness was a betrayal to his brother’s memory, as the line between the memory and the shadow seemed to bend and blur and meld into a seamless whole. It was in part due to this that Hanzo ventured to scale the walls of the Shimada castle every year to return to the shrine where they’d fought and remember him as he’d once been.

____

Until the day the cyborg spoke his brother’s name, and Hanzo’s world changed irrevocably once more.

____

 

____

It was impossible not to notice the gnarled burn scar stretched over the archer’s neck like a sunburst, and though many were curious to know the story behind it, such marks of history were not out of place on mercenaries and bounty hunters, as McCree could attest to. There were more than a few old wounds hidden by the cheery reddish-orange of his _abuela’s_ serape. 

____

He’d caught Genji’s visored gaze lingering on the scar more than once, though, and knew he wanted to ask the how’s and why’s. Sometimes, McCree wondered if the knowledge that Hanzo had taken no pleasure or satisfaction from his victory did more to help or hurt the ninja’s fragile new outlook on life. 

____

They didn’t ask the archer about the scars, or where he’d been, or what he’d done, anything to keep him from scurrying back into the wilderness. And while McCree hoped from the bottom of his boots that Genji could iron out his issues with his brother before he wound up getting hurt again, there was something about the haunted man that made the cowboy want to give him a chance.

____

The archer was an odd one, though. And not just because the infamously traditional elder brother defied expectations by arriving at Watchpoint with a nose bar, several ear piercings, and a decidedly modern undercut. He’d seemed self-conscious about it at first, often fidgeting with the hoops, suggesting that the look was recent, but if Genji’s mystified silence at his arrival were any indication, the change was a welcome one. 

____

There were other things that caught his attention. The odd twitch here and there when no one had moved or addressed him, the way his gaze seemed to track the empty air, or how often he became distracted, as though he were constantly listening to multiple conversations at once. Though he was always polite when asking others to repeat themselves, McCree hadn’t pegged the man for daydreaming. 

____

Lena had wondered once if it wasn’t because English wasn’t his first language, as the man himself seemed to imply, yet Genji was able to keep up more or less effortlessly, and he claimed that Hanzo had always been the more devoted study of the two. 

____

While the archer’s transition into Overwatch had started out smoothly, his quirks seemed to be getting worse, and as sleep continuously evaded him, McCree noticed the man reacting more and more often to phantoms. A man gets too attached to his ghosts and he’ll join them soon enough. 

____

That morning, Hanzo walked into the kitchen wearing gray slacks, a sweatshirt, and a scowl that said he’d trudged through a field of corpses to get there. Waving him over to the seat where he’d saved the archer a plate of pancakes, McCree greeted cheerily, “You’re looking mighty homicidal this morning, archer. Something we should know?”

____

Stifling a powerful yawn, Hanzo slipped into his seat. “It was merely a long night.” 

____

“Couldn’t get to sleep?”

____

The archer’s tired gaze drifted to where Angela sat talking to Reinhardt – no, slightly to her right – and grimaced with what looked like second-hand embarrassment. Resting his head in his hands, Hanzo murmured with an unmistakable note of exasperation, “You could say that.” 

____

McCree tilted his head, but heard nothing that should have garnered such a reaction. When he turned back around to ask the archer about it, however, it was to spot the man deftly digging out a flask from within his sleeves so that he could pour a generous helping of sake into his orange juice. Taken aback, McCree managed a half-hearted shrug, “Well, okay, then. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, I guess.”

____

The clack and clatter of silverware knocking against plates filled the resulting lapse in conversation like cement, drawing it out, until finally Hanzo groaned miserably under his breath, “ _Yametekure_.” 

____

And while McCree’s knowledge of the Shimada’s native language may have fallen solidly into the barely conversational, he’d caught enough snippets of Genji’s cartoons back in Blackwatch to suss out the meaning, not that it helped him anyway when the cause was still a mystery. He noticed that the archer was staring tentatively at Genji, but there was something shaky and unfocused about it, like he was trying to concentrate on a double image. The edge of his mouth twitched, the movement subtle enough that Jesse couldn’t tell if the man wanted to scowl or... 

____

“Who are you talking to?” The pair turned simultaneously to see Hana had sidled up next to them to place her elbows her elbows on the table and hang her head sideways. Wary, McCree shook his head, since if anyone was going to put the archer on the defensive it should be him, since he could take, but she ignored him. “You’ve been making faces at the walls for days. If you’re going to be watching my back, I'd like to know why.”

____

A soldier before she was an adult - that was Hana Song. 

____

Hanzo’s gaze flicked to Genji once more. McCree noted that the cyborg had completely given up the pretense of ignorance, and was now actively and visibly paying attention. “Overwatch is an illegal organization maintained by some of the most wanted criminals in the world. I was not aware that you could afford the luxury of standards.” Spots of color appeared in Hana’s cheeks while she seethed, and she plopped down in the empty chair beside him. A moment passed and Hanzo huffed a laugh, gusty and brief, surprising all of them but most of all himself. 

____

He pressed his coffee mug to his lips, only to quickly begin coughing when the beverage went down the wrong pipe. The table shook under the force of Genji’s palms when he slammed his hands on the table, silencing all conversation and bringing the attention of everyone present to where he now stood with subtle tremors ripping through his synthetic body. “Do you have a problem with me, brother?” 

____

Hanzo looked so thrown by the accusation that McCree actually felt bad for the man, but he had to admit that Genji had a right to be upset. After inhaling deeply, Hanzo rose to his feet while his eyes remained downcast. “No, that is not…” He swallowed around an unwelcome lump in his throat and tried again, resignation plain in the formality of his tone. “I did not intend to offend you.” 

____

Ducking his head to conceal his expression, he quickly gathered his plate, mug, and drink into a manageable stack and turned to carry them to the kitchen. 

____

Warning bells going off in his head, McCree jumped to his feet, and before his brain could catch up with his mouth, blurted, “Hey, you alright there, partner?” 

____

Bemused, the archer hesitated at the threshold, “I am merely cleaning up so that I may return to my quarters. Do not disturb me.”

____

And McCree, not knowing what else to do, let him go. 

____

No other attempts were made to stop him.

____

 

____

The door to Hanzo’s room shut heavily, reminding him forcefully of coffins falling shut prior to the burial. Before he’d abandoned the clan, he’d spent enough time at funerals to know the sound. 

____

Genji was already in the room, lounging on his bed with his arms folded behind his head. He seemed agitated. _Jeez, who stuck their katana up his –_

____

At Hanzo’s entrance, he smirked, _Oh. Now I remember._

____

Snarling, Hanzo advanced on him. “I thought you’d grown tired of such pranks.

____

With a wide grin distorting his features, Genji languidly propped himself up on an elbow. _Me? Get tired of tormenting you?_ He laughed, a horrible sound. _Never._

____

“Flirting with the doctor, distracting me –”

____

_Doing my death face,_ the Sparrow interrupted. _We both know that’s what you’re really mad about._

____

It was a challenge and Hanzo answered it without hesitation, the darkness in his gaze consuming the light as he viciously retorted, “Except it’s not really your death face that you wear, is it? Genji is still alive.” It should have been such happy news, yet it was said with anger and bitterness, confusion and something bordering on cruelty. For once, Hanzo wanted to be the one causing this specter pain. 

____

Canines lengthening, blood pooling in the creases of his face, Genji bore a striking resemblance to a monster, yet Hanzo still saw more of his brother in the malicious ghoul than in the cyborg outside. _Are you accusing me of being a fake?_

____

And, yes, that was what he had been implying, but neither of them knew what it would mean for their pasts or their futures. Who was the specter, if not Genji? Who was Hanzo, if not his brother's murderer?

____

“I am saying…” Hanzo said gently, though his feet remained root to the floor, “that we both believed you to be something you are not.” The Sparrow’s cocky expression faltered, uncertainty leaking through the cracks. “And by trapping you here in this state, I have robbed you of any opportunity you might have had to grow or find some measure of peace as… as my brother seems to have done.”

____

At the mention of his true family, the specter’s features shuttered, becoming colder than a frozen lake as he slipped off of the mattress to stand at his full height, an inch or so below Hanzo. _So I’m not real? Is that it?!_ His arm reached for his sword while Hanzo’s remained at his sides. And then the blade was drawn, glittering an unnatural green in the dim lighting that through color and shades across the walls. The ninja bared his teeth. _And you’re just going to abandon me? Again?!_

____

He swung the blade with the intent to kill, to rend and tear, like a dragon tearing meat from flesh, yet Hanzo made no attempt to avoid the blow. He closed his eyes, allowing the katana to pass harmlessly through him. 

____

_Chikusho._

____

The archer opened his eyes once more to see the blade resting harmlessly at the Sparrow’s side as he ran a hand agitatedly through his green locks. _So what happens now? You don’t need me. You have the real deal now, the genuine article. Not this…_ He gestured helplessly to himself - _horrifying distortion you’ve imagined me to be._

____

For the longest time, Hanzo had thought of the apparition as his curse, his punishment. He had seen in parts, mischief and fury and wantonness, the worst aspects of Genji anchored to the living world by his hatred. Now, however, he could see the whole, and what he saw was just as lost and afraid as he was. Together, they had been unchanging, trapped in their anger and sorrow, but not even that could last forever. 

____

For the very first time, Hanzo reached out to him. He laid a palm on his shoulder, certain he could feel the resistance of cloth and flesh beneath his hand, and looked straight into the Sparrow’s disbelieving brown eyes, so like his own. “Real or not, for these past ten years, you have been a constant companion by my side.” And if he were insane, then Genji’s shadow was his greatest proof, and if he were not, then that same shadow was his greatest cause. “I needed you then, as I will always need you.” They regarded each other in silence, as a genuine smile began to curve the Sparrow’s mouth at the corners. He covered the hand on his shoulder with his own. 

____

_Then you shall have me._

____

There came a knock on the door, soft raps almost too quiet to be heard, and the unmistakable whirring of machinery. Standing alone in an empty room, Hanzo moved to let him in.

____


	37. if i could save you - part 2

On the plane ride over, the young omnic’s head had swiveled excitedly at the wide, seemingly endless expanse of sea below them, and now, on land, he could scarcely speak from the awe welling within him at the healthy green grass below his feet, the mottled grey and brown boughs above him, the sturdy rows of houses that each held healthy humans with clean, full faces devoid of hunger, madness, rage, or fear. 

For the first time, the young omnic saw humans who didn’t hate him the instant they laid eyes on him. It was a strange feeling. In fact, he realized that he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Did it have a name? The monk seemed nice enough, and would answer his questions if he asked, but he doubted that someone so wise would want to trouble himself with his concerns. 

Curiosity burning through his circuits, he faced forward once more to chance approaching the monk’s student, who had walked several feet ahead of them since their landing and ignored him for the entirety of the trip, only to see that he had mysteriously vanished, leaving the monk to lead him into the large base, where there were no char marks in the dirt, no burns or scratches or spiked tires of death rolling around. The young omnic thought that the monk seemed troubled for some reason, though he tried to hide his worry beneath gentle gestures and a kindly tone. And the bot wanted to ask, but found it hard to concentrate when there were so many new sights and sounds and textures, a spotless tile floor beneath his feet and long stretches of quiet hallway that glowed at the end with a warm light, where laughter, amused without teetering towards hysteric or cruel, and the clatter of pans could be heard. His servos whirred furiously as he struggled to process it all. 

It wasn’t quite a fortress, not guarded with spikes and traps the way the Junker Queen was, though he had never actually been close enough to see her, but there were small moving machines shooting beams of white and blue light. He stopped following the hovering monk for a moment, fascinated by their repetitive motion. After a brief search through his meager database, he came up with the words _turret_ , _hard light construct_ , and _Vishkar_. They seemed familiar, like words he should know or had known, but even so, they held little meaning to him now. A frustrated burst of static crackled from his vocalizer as he pondered what to do with these sentries. 

Should he wave? The search hadn’t had much to offer on the question of sentience, and Junkers had robots that could function without direction or thought, but was ignoring them really worth the risk of a bad first impression? He didn’t want to seem rude. And he _really_ didn’t want to be sent back to Junktown. 

To his own surprise and confusion, he found himself wishing that the cyborg was still around to explain these things. 

He raised his armored limb in a half-wave, and turret fixated on him, its beam extending outwards before a firm grip on his wrist tugged him away. He glanced down at the slender brass digits standing out against his silver plating, before looking up to the see the monk – _Zenyatta_ – who appeared somewhat anxious despite the lack of motion his own facial plating provided. “Careful now,” the monk calmly intoned as he guided them patiently towards what appeared to be the entrance to an aircraft hanger. “Not all machines think as we do, and those lights, though beautiful, will harm you if you touch them.”

Though chagrined at having apparently warranted the need for supervision, the omnic wordlessly offered a nod to confirm his understanding, and the monk’s touch promptly drifted, allowing him to walk once more as he pleased. At their approach, the reinforced shutters began to rise, folding into themselves so that they fit neatly against the ceiling, and waiting inside, the young omnic could see more humans, including one in particular that was larger than any he’d ever seen. The man wore his steel gray hair long enough that its tips brushed against his broad shoulders, and a pale, jagged scar running over a milky pupil spoke of battle. Junkers had borne similar disfigurements, though theirs weren’t usually so neat. Putting his guard up, the omnic edged forward to place himself in front of the monk, since the cyborg wasn’t around to protect him. 

A man in a blue leather vest and a scarlet visor stepped forward with a pulse rifle held loosely against his chest, and the omnic stiffened, his own visor flaring in warning. Ignoring his discomfort, the scarred giant boomed, “Why, hello there!” Surprised, the automaton reflexively stepped back, nearly bumping into the monk as he did so. The giant chuckled, his sole functioning eye sparkling with good humor. “Genji informed us of your fortuitous arrival. Tell me, my friend, what is your name?”

Suppressing an urge to tell the burly man that he’d mixed up the natural progression of an introduction, the omnic instead replied, “Han-” An image of the cyborg’s stiff and withdrawn demeanor asserted itself behind his retinal sensors like an afterimage. Disheartened, he muttered to the side, “I mean… I don’t have one.”

He wasn’t here to start a fight or upset anyone. Actually, he wasn’t here for any real reason, at all. They could send him back whenever they chose, whenever he was deemed more trouble than he was worth. 

“Don’t have one, you say?” A thunderous chuckle burst from the giant’s diaphragm, causing the soldier in the vest to lean subtly away from him, as though tempted to cover his ears. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?”

Thinking wistfully of the title held beyond his reach for reasons he didn’t know and hesitated to ask for, the young omnic hedged, “Well… I guess Rusty is okay.” It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being named by another again. Perhaps choosing to appropriate the slur would lessen its bite a bit. At least until he thought of something better. 

“Rusty, is it? A good name.” The German crusader looked as though he were searching for nice things to say. “Certainly unique.” Rusty sighed with a sound like crumpled paper, and the giant narrowed his iron eyes, his single-point gaze becoming piercing. “You, however, do not seem so enthused.”

The young omnic shifted away, uncomfortable with the attention, then in a slightly lower register, murmured, “It will suffice.” 

Though the German man appeared dissatisfied with the response, any reply on his part was halted when the soldier at his side rested a gloved hand on his forearm. A silent conversation passed between them, something that clearly appeared to upset the towering crusader, but in the end, the larger man stood down, and the soldier with the 76 on his vest gestured for them to approach. “I’m trusting your judgment on this, Zenyatta. Knowing you, you wouldn’t have brought another omnic here on a whim.” His visor seemed to graze the flaking paint of Rusty's home-made dragon design. Lowering his rifle, the soldier turned to the side, allowing them to see the true entrance to Watchpoint behind him, a simple door which would lead them towards the inner building. As they passed, he added with a voice like gravel and glass, “That doesn’t mean I’m about to let my guard down.”

But as much as the words stung, Rusty wasn’t looking at him when they exited the hanger. Instead, his retinal sensors were processing the slight downturn of the silvery-haired giant’s mouth, the indescribable something in his eyes that looked like pain even though the omnic was certain he had not been injured. 

Filing the thought away for later, he allowed himself to be guided once again by the monk, who adjusted his pace so that he always hovered slightly ahead, though he did tend to float in place for a time whenever the young omnic’s curiosity was peaked by the sound of techno music eeking out from beneath a doorway or the plaster revealed by a mysterious gouge in the wall. 

Up ahead, a glow emanated from the room at the end of the hall, and with it came laughter, amused without crossing into madness or cruelty, the sizzle of bacon and eggs cooking on a pan, the pop of grease and fat, and the occasional shriek of a blender grinding down oranges into juice. 

After gesturing for him to remain outside, Zenyatta went into the kitchen to announce his presence, though Rusty groaned internally when the older omnic went out of his way to stress his relative youth to the unseen audience. “Our kind,” he intoned solemnly, as Rusty listened with his audio receptors pressed flat against the door, “are born with our minds and bodies at their full potential, yet he is still little older than a child by our standards, and there is much for him to learn. Please do your best to be gentle with him, as these developing months can be extremely trying for young omnics.” 

A high-pitched cackle, hyena-like, doused the spark of his mild frustration with gasoline, shattering his calm into scattered geometric shapes, and he burst into the kitchen, betrayal and hurt masked by a fury that caused the thin strip of his visor to blaze. 

“What is a Junker doing here?” He hissed through a burst of feedback, placing himself directly in front of the monk. For once, his vocalizers did a more than adequate job of conveying his feelings, because the voice that ripped out of him when he pointed an accusing finger at the grinning spiky-haired maniac sitting in the company of a Korean teen and a stern-faced Russian woman was unmistakably a snarl, “I thought I came here to escape men like you.” 

“So yer the bot they found runnin’ with our old crew.” The Junker, skinny, dirty, and burned, plopped his elbows up on the table, looking relieved to have the monotony of the day broken with the promise of a conflict. “Just what we need ‘round here-” he drawled lazily to the large man in the pig’s mask leaning against the wall behind him, “Another omnic. It’s like this place is becomin' some kind of robot sanctuary or something.”

The teenaged girl sitting beside him with the cartoon rabbit on her pajama top gave him a sour look. “Most of those robots were here before you, you know.”

While the Australian scoffed, Rusty glanced to the side, his fists clenched as sparks breathed life into the paint on his armored exoskeleton. He wasn’t going to attack, not indoors where innocent people could get hurt, and certainly not after he’d been invited, but the dragons didn’t understand the situation, only that something had upset him. He didn’t miss the way the Russian woman’s hand inched down to the blaster at her side. 

“I didn’t run with your crew,” he muttered, hating how little of a difference it made when his gears grated and servos whirred from discomfort, when the starving madman in front of him represented how futile his attempts to leave the wastelands had been when bias and mockery had only followed him. 

He forced himself to stare at the pink-haired scarred and muscular Russian woman instead. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, tapped her nails against the table, then bluntly stated, her voice husky and thick with accent, “I don’t trust you.”

He tilted his head, anger and disappointment making him stiff despite the gentle touch of the monk urging for calm. “ I do not care. I survived for a month on my own with no allies to speak of. I am sure I can do the same with bad ones.” 

Her nostrils flared as she stood at her fullest height, allowing her to tower about two heads above him. “You think you’re alive?” A cruel smile curled her lips. “How pitiful.”

It was at that moment that a young man with his dreadlocks tied back in a wrap strode into the kitchen with a loud yawn. Fuzzy slippers adorned his feet, each of them decorated with overstuffed frog heads that bobbed merrily over his toes, and as for his sleepwear, he was still wearing green shorts and a loose white t-shirt. He didn’t seem to notice the newcomer as he groggily drifted towards the orange juice, unwittingly stepping between the omnic and the Russian woman. “Yo, Zenyatta,” he yawned again, though his smile was bright, “welcome back. Where’s the G-man?” And just like that, the tension was diffused. The Junker eased back into a slouch while the Russian woman returned to her seat, and the teenaged girl, looking relieved, passed the tired human a plate of toast. It took a minute before the young man gasped, realizing Rusty’s presence at last, and he hurriedly introduced himself as Lucio, a musician from Brazil. D.Va eagerly introduced herself next, though she took it upon herself to do so for the other less welcoming members, as well, and even gave him a brief overview of the rest of their team. Rusty was relieved, if bemused, to learn that there was an advanced AI in their midst called Athena, and that a Bastion unit had somehow survived the Crisis. 

He sat with them until they finished their breakfast, after which he was allowed to wander the premises, since though he hadn’t signed any documents to officially register himself as a member of the illegal organization, he wasn’t exactly a prisoner, either. They could give him supervision, but not confine him to any room or section without his consent. And so he drifted, from watching D.Va while she streamed until she roped him into making a guest appearance, to observing silently while Zarya worked out in the gym. He even tried to mimic her a few times when he thought she wasn’t looking, though it proved to be a learning experience when even his synthetic muscles and tendons groaned underneath the burden of the weights he’d attempted to lift. 

He liked to watch Reinhardt, too, except the aging German was always trying to involve him, which would have been fine if Rusty weren’t certain that his knee would disconnect at the joint if he had to do one more squat set. No, he was content with simply watching as Orisa, with her centaur-like body, attempted to imitate the crusader’s daunting workout routine. 

The first time they’d encountered each other, Rusty had enthusiastically accosted her in the hallway with, “Why do you have four legs?” before recalling that it was polite to introduce oneself before asking for personal information. 

She hadn’t seemed bothered in the slightest, though, because she’d immediately replied, “It is the way that I was made.” 

And he’d paused to ponder that for about a New York minute before looking up at her horned head with an awed, “Can _I_ have four legs?”

Though he’d tried making to case for it to Dr. Ziegler in her clinic shortly after, she’d merely stared at him from her desk for a long moment, her delicate brow furrowed in confusion, before wondering aloud, “But why on earth would you want to have four legs?”

“Because then I can run twice as fast,” Rusty reasoned with absolutely zero research to back up his claim. 

An odd battle occurred at the corners of her mouth before she raised a palm to hide it, but when she finally spoke again, there was an unmistakable merriment in her words, “That is not precisely how it works, dear.”

There were times, such as then, when he made them laugh, and other times still, when an innocent comment on his part would make them sad, such as when he pointed out that one of the top scoring usernames on Hana’s game board did not belong to her, and she told him about a friend they’d lost, with that same not-hurt expression that spoke of a sadness he couldn’t grasp. It wasn’t the same as Reinhardt’s, yet Rusty felt within him that same desire to banish it, to keep the faces of those close to him free of its taint. 

He didn’t mention the name again. 

While the decommissioned Bastion unit (aptly called Bastion) and the little yellow bird that liked to perch on their shoulder were nice enough, Rusty soon realized that he did not share the former combat unit’s enthusiasm for birds. It really was wonderful to have a passion, as most of the Overwatch members seemed to have, but the young omnic began to detect a discomfiting stirring in his chest whenever the subject remained on the winged creatures for too long, as his thoughts would often inexplicably turn to the absent cyborg. He wanted to know more about him, yet Zenyatta encouraged him to be patient, as his student was as lost and confused as he was.

His exasperation mounted, however, as questions continued to pile up while their answers deftly evaded him, and Rusty found himself doubting the assertion more and more with each passing day, especially once it became clear that the monk’s pupil was actively avoiding him. There was an instance where Rusty had heard the soft hum of his systems working from beyond a corner, seen the cast of light thrown off by his illuminated armor. He’d slowed, reluctant to give away his presence, as there was one shadow too many stretching across the floor. “You can’t be dodgin' the little guy forever, luv,” a feminine voice pressed, though there was kindness in it. “Not without givin’ him a reason.” Though he strained to pick up on the cyborg’s response, none seemed forthcoming, and eventually, the pilot known as Lena came trudging around the corner with her shoulders hunched and expression saddened. And though she tried to plaster on a smile after being made aware of his presence with a start, he’d made certain to leave her company with haste, for her sake as well as his own. 

It was with these thoughts occupying him that Rusty first noticed that speakers intermingled with the ends of Lucio’s dreadlocks. As unsettled and restless as he was at being kept in the dark, he leapt at the chance to distract himself with the Brazilian DJ’s mysterious hairstyle. And so, as he watched Lucio tie and fasten his skates on a stoop by the Watchpoint entrance, he ventured to ask about them, as their function, beyond simple amusement, eluded him. When Lucio paused to look up at him, however, his eyebrows raising slightly, Rusty wondered if he’d misstepped. There used to be a sort of dichotomy when it came to humans, where they were the enemy and it was him and his spirit dragons against the rest of the world. Without it, he found himself struggling to adapt and floundering. 

Instead of ignoring him or getting defensive, however, Lucio merely rolled his shoulders with a chuckle, “You would think that, little man, but with regular speakers, you got to always keep an eye on them or else someone’s going to take them out.” What an odd thing to think about. More interested than he’d like to admit, Rusty quietly sat down beside him, in an unspoken invitation for him to continue, and Lucio obliged by telling him about Vishkar, about how they censored the media and forced local businesses to shut down, and all in the name of keeping order. In his head, Rusty nicknamed the Vishkar the anti-Junkers, as each group seemed to represent an extreme on opposite ends of the spectrum. Order and chaos - naturally at odds yet unable to exist without their counterbalance. 

Lucio’s good humor fell to shambles when the beautiful young Indian woman and former Vishkar agent known as Symmetra strode past without slowing. “Like this,” his voice hard, Lucio tracked her retreating back with a narrowed gaze, “the only way they can stop the music is if they stop me first. And that ain’t gonna happen.” If the hard light manipulator heard him, however, she showed no visible signs of it. None that a human's eyes could catch, at least.

Once she was out of sight, having rounded a corner on her way to the training grounds, Lucio visibly relaxed, the tension seeping out of his taut muscles. “So,” he started in a tone that was almost apologetic, “you like dragons?”

Rusty pulled a mental frown at the change. They were all so gentle with him, as though he were made of cracked glass or truly as innocent and naïve as the monk seemed to think. A part of him wondered what he had to do to prove himself, to show once and for all that he didn’t need to be coddled. Warmth, gentle and comforting, pulsed from the flaking gold pattern of a roaring dragon twined around his arm. 

Soon, he would have to find the supplies needed to touch up the design, but it was not quite so faded that the omnic was concerned. “I saw this image in my head when I woke up. It felt weird not to have it, so I painted it on, and then I could talk to these guys.” As though called, the tattoo became iridescent with an ethereal light, and a single scaly head crested above the surface of his plating, only to sink back down when Lucio fell over backwards with a squawk of surprise. 

After that, though Rusty could count his friends with one hand, more than zero was more than he’d ever had, and he was happy to play the video games he was oddly skilled at, despite his lack of experience, or listen to the music that sometimes struck a cord of déjà vu within him, but heedless of his efforts to banish the cyborg from his thoughts, his sustained absence continued to baffle him. 

He asked after the enigmatic hybrid once it became clear that he was skipping dinner once again. Even if the meal may have actually been a formality more than anything, the company was certainly not, and Rusty had a feeling that if he weren’t present, the cyborg’s seat would be filled. “Where is he?” He gestured towards the empty space with a soft crackle of static. 

Surprisingly, it was Torbjorn who snorted, “Well, he be training, most likely. Not that the lad needs it. That boy’s clocked more hours these past few months than the rest of us combined.” A hush fell over the conversation. Quietly, Rusty excused himself to slip away towards the training grounds. 

They were located outdoors, at the section of Watchpoint where the boxy target bots hovered in predictable patterns over the concrete while the cyborg rushed forward in a streak of neon to slice them into ribbons. After every attack, however, the robots would merely pull themselves back together, only to fall prey once more to the endless assault. Rusty watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, as Genji repeatedly deconstructed them, the harshness of his breathing and the steam issuing from his vents suggesting that the exertion was taking a toll on him, until eventually he rose out of his crouch with several steady inhales.

It was impossible to tell if his eyes were closed or open, and the young omnic did not wish to startle him, so he remained silent, and thus witnessed when the cyborg’s calm evaporated with a mechanical snarl as he reared back to launch his blade at the wall beyond the floating targets. It’s point didn’t catch, however, and it fell with a jarring clatter that carried on the frigid wind. When he turned as though he were simply going to leave it there, a victim to the elements, Rusty darted forward, more aware than he’d like to be of the way the cyborg tensed at his arrival.

He bent to pick up the katana, intending to hand it back to him, since he was sure that it was important somehow, but a sudden paralysis arrested him the instant his fingers curled around its hilt, accompanied by a revulsion so powerful it was all he could do not to hurl the offending object as far from himself as possible. The katana fell from his loosened grip, eliciting a surprised yelp and shocking the omnic into motion. At the cyborg’s silent approach, Rusty bent once more to gather up the blade, “ _Gomen!_ I don’t know what happened. I just-”

“It is fine.” The green-edged katana was deftly snatched away from him. With the blade now back in his possession, Genji again turned to walk back inside, “Don’t worry about it,” leaving Rusty to remain, even more confused and distressed than before.

 

It was a cool winter night when Jesse poked his head out of his bedroom window to see a slight omnic with a pulsing blue visor crouched on a ledge several sills away, staring up at the constellations in stillness and silence. Grabbing a cigarillo to help chase off the chill, McCree leaned out over the threshold, drawing the omnic’s attention with a wave. “Howdy.”

Though there was something inhuman about the fluidity of the automaton’s movements, a smoothness that veered on unsettling. The cowboy tried to imagine a scowl on his faceplate when he demanded, “How did you know I would be here?”

It didn’t take Winston to figure out that Genji’s mood had nosedived after his training session, and when Rusty didn't reappear that night, it’d pretty much confirmed the cowboy’s suspicions. Dangling his boots over the sill while the end of his lit cigarillo glowed pleasantly, McCree uttered through a mouthful of smoke, “Because you sittin’ there on that ledge is the only reason my good friend, Genji, wouldn’t be here doin’ the same. ‘stead, he had to find himself a different rock to brood on.” He exhaled, sending a cloud of swirling gray to the stars as he noted with a smirk, “Terrible inconvenience, that.”

A garbled burst of white noise startled him, and he turned sharply to see that the little guy had buried his head in his arms. “I don’t get what I did wrong,” came the muffled response. “We’ve barely spoken to each other, yet he obviously hates me.”

“If that were the case, this whole mess’d be a lot simpler than it is.” Something about this conversation was starting to unearth old memories from his Blackwatch days, the kind better left in the dirt. 

The young omnic groaned into his hands, “I do not know what that means.”

Thinking back on it, Jesse would have much preferred to talk about this inside, not while the pair of them were positioned precariously over a high drop and he had a ledge pressed against his jeans that was freezing him from the bottom up, but Shimadas always had a thing about opening up in high places, so instead of belly-aching, he drew another long drag and tried to count the stars, all the while keeping an eye out for any streaks of light he could make a wish on. After the third time he’d lost count, he decided he’d been silent long enough. It was time to go in for the kill. “If you don’t mind my askin’, why do ya care so much what he thinks?”

With his unwavering, unblinking gaze trained solely on him, Rusty tilted his head to the side, the azure brilliance of his visor flaring for an instant. “It’s not... I don’t… There’s not any particular reason behind it. It’sss…” As he wrestled with whatever it was he wanted to express, a sibilant hissing emitted from his vocalizer. McCree waited him out. “I just feel like…” Stiff limbs jerked in a helpless, hopeless shrug. “I can’t leave him alone.” 

And maybe McCree knew what that was like a little more intimately than most, so he let it lie, and they sat in a silence filled with unsolved mysteries until the sky began to lighten with the threat of the rising sun, because in the split second of distraction that a blink cost him, the omnic vanished from his spot, leaving McCree to retreat indoors, grumpy, groggy, and chilled down to his skivvies.


	38. A New Year, A New Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji wasn't sure what he was expecting after confronting Hanzo at Hanamura. Was it for his brother to show up at Overwatch after a week? A month? Instead, it seemed Hanzo had gone to ground again, but just as it seems Genji will be greeting the new year without him, the intruder alarm goes off in Watchpoint.

In the year since their reunion in Hanamura, Genji had thought often on his brother’s whereabouts. Hanzo had retreated off the grid, leaving behind no physical nor financial trail, though that had always been norm when it came to his life on the run. The only issue Genji had with it was that by confronting his brother, Genji had hoped to break him of his self-exile, to set him on a path of healing, as Zenyatta had once done for him. As the months passed without any communication or evidence that Hanzo was even alive, however, he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t unintentionally made matters worse. 

It was only a matter of weeks before the anniversary of his – well, Reyes had always called it the anniversary of his initiation into Blackwatch, but Reyes wasn’t around anymore, was he? 

Still, calling it his ‘death’ felt disingenuous, though he supposed it could be called that, as Genji Shimada did die that day, in a manner of speaking. Perhaps that was why a part of him still raged against his brother for his murder, despite his past and current self being one and the same. It was the end of the life he had known, a life mostly constituted of comfort, though it was destined to end in blood, either his own or of those he would have been tasked to slay in order to maintain it. In the latter case, a different Genji would have died, for the soul of the child who gazed at sparrows with pleasure and envy would have suffocated in the clan’s corruption and sin. 

There would have always been a choice. It was only that for a very long time, Genji had blistered under the belief that, in spite of all his struggles, his path had inevitably been chosen for him. 

…This would be the part where Reyes would snidely mention that he could have spent the rest of his life in a bed if he’d really wanted to, though they both had known that wasn’t true. The outcast scion of the Shimada wouldn’t have had the funds to maintain such care. Blackwatch was as much of a choice for him as it had been for Jesse, a scrawny teenaged gangster that wouldn’t have lasted a month behind prison walls. 

Well, melancholy and Hanzo went pretty much went hand-in-hand, so it made sense that with the end of the year approaching, he’d secluded himself in the Watchpoint lounge room, armed only with a pair of loose fleece pajamas and a gallon of Strawberry ice cream melting in his lap. 

The couch currently trying to eat him was an old plaid sofa Jesse had found in a local thrift store, and when Winston had made a weak protest that moth-bitten furniture clashed with the high-tech base (and could possibly be a health hazard) Jesse had retroactively added the sofa to his contract as a condition of his joining Overwatch.

Somehow, it’d worked. 

Genji was still smiling at the memory when an alarm sounded over the speakers, and Athena announced an intruder standing at the entrance with a suspicious package. 

After setting the ice cream down on the cushion, since putting it down on either the nightstand or the coffee stable was bound to lead to condensation stains, Genji sprinted on light feet, navigating the hallways effortlessly, before sliding in a controlled skid to stand at Jesse’s side several paces behind the main entrance, a metal door large enough to fit a tank and thick enough to stop one. 

His sidearm was already drawn. “Nice entrance there, partner,” Jesse whistled without turning his gaze. “You just get flashier with age there, don’t ya?”

As he ejected three shuriken from the cartridge in his prosthetic arm, Genji teasingly retorted, “Says the man dressed like a cowboy.”

“Touché.” 

There was a polite rapping at the door, soft and tentative, and Genji felt his heart sink further into his chest. Hanzo always threw the entirety of himself into his actions, and as such, left no room for hesitation or doubt, yet the knocking at the door sounded almost meek. It couldn’t be him. 

With his finger hovering over the trigger, Jesse calmly asked Athena if she had any idea as to who might be stopping by for a visit. 

Immediately, Athena responded, “The man appears to be in his late 30’s and of Asian descent. I have requested identification and he divulged his first name without resistance.” And she went on to tell them, after which Jesse’s lips parted in a sharp inhale. More words were said, but Genji had ceased to listen. That plummeting feeling within him had changed directions, and yet it was joined by nerves and dread. He was no longer sure if he was ready to face his brother, not now that he stood at the door. All the months - the years – he’d spent rehearsing what he would say to him disappeared in a flash. Before, the meeting had been on his terms, the battle which had ensued playing out loyally to his imaginings. This wasn’t going to be a short visit, however. 

What would it be like to live under the same roof as Hanzo again? Genji would find out if he could only get through this first encounter. 

“Let him in,” he heard himself say, his own voice grating against a suddenly dry throat. Unconsciously, his back had straightened, as though anticipating a reprimand, and though he sheathed his weapons, he could not keep his fists from curling at his sides. 

Jesse briefly spared him a glance, a familiar worry flashing in his gaze. 

Staring ahead, Genji ignored it. 

The entrance opened to reveal a man in a windbreaker, it’s collar raised high to guard his neck from the elements. The sides of his head spotted a closely shorn cut that gradually thickened at the base of his jawline to morph into a neatly trimmed goatee. To keep the look from becoming too severe, the top of his head had been largely unchanged, as it was left long enough to fit into a tight bun. 

The sun, now dipping below the horizon as festivities for the approaching new year began to gain momentum, with a smattering of premature fireworks cutting through the dusk to briefly shine among the stars, reflected off of the silver studs in his ears.

Hanzo had piercings. Plural. 

There was a bar placed snuggly in his nose cartlidge, as well, and if Genji’s jaw wasn’t drilled into his cheekbone, it would have fallen clean off. 

The man he’d confronted in Hanamura had been easily identifiable as Hanzo Shimada, the former heir of the Shimada clan. Now, however, it was as though he were someone entirely new. Who was this stranger standing awkwardly on the threshold with – Was that a strawberry cake?? 

What had happened to his fanatic loyalty to tradition? 

Perhaps Genji wasn’t the right person to have such thoughts, but how could Hanzo, ever inflexible and unerringly rigid in his adherence to a time long past, have changed in a mere matter of months? 

As neither of the Overwatch members had seen fit to address him yet, Athena clearly broadcasted over the speaker, “Welcome to Watchpoint, Hanzo Shimada. May we know of your business here?”

Hanzo stiffened, unnerved by the lack of a body to put to a face. Then his gaze settled on the speakers hanging from the ceiling, and he visibly relaxed. “I was invited,” he said, though he seemed intent on focusing on the announcement system, as it gave him a convenient excuse not to address the pair of agents in the room. He hadn’t moved from the threshold. “Were you not made aware of this?”

He was skittish, Genji realized. Like a stag ready to bolt. In spite of his disdain for them, Hanzo had willingly placed himself in a new environment, with people who, for all he knew, could very well try to kill him for what he had done to one of their own. Hanzo had come accepting that possibility, maybe even anticipating it, and yet here he was. 

Genji took a step forward, forcing Hanzo’s attention to fall on him. Instantly, McCree’s arm barred him from continuing. He was tense, poised to shoot if Hanzo so much as looked at him funny. A mechanical noise of frustration issued from his vocal synthesizer when he impatiently pushed the limb down. “They were all made aware, Hanzo.” A meaningful glance at Jesse. “They know that I have forgiven you, and respect my decision to give you a second chance.”

“A terrible decision, really.” Jesse muttered under his breath, leading Genji to clandestinely elbow him. 

Hanzo, who’d followed the exchange with an arched brow, reacted to the resulting muted grunt with a low chuckle. It was a sound Genji hadn’t heard in over a decade, and he momentarily reeled, unsure of what to say or how to react. Still, he’d be hard-pressed to mistake the twist at the corner of Hanzo’s mouth for happiness. 

Instead of speaking what was on his mind, however, Hanzo lifted the package he carried, “I brought a cake.” 

Triumph glinted in his dark eyes when Jesse looked down at the treat with unmasked appreciation. “Well,” he shrugged, “it’s a waste to let something so tasty-looking go bad. I’m willing to bet there’s something in the kitchen we can use.” Hanzo passed it over when he reached for it, looking only mildly reluctant, but when Jesse turned to head to the living facilities, with Genji moving to follow, Hanzo remained still. 

They stopped. “What are you doing, partner?” Jesse scratched the back of his head. “It’d be easier if ya just came with us, ‘stead of me havin’ to carry out a slice for ya.”

Remaining rooted, planted like an old oak, Hanzo waved him off. “There is no need…” He shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “I may have eaten the other one on the way.”

A brief silence greeted the admission, with Hanzo looking more agitated with each passing second, until Jesse barked out a laugh, breaking the tension. “Is that all? Guess sweet tooths run in the family.” He nudged Genji, who at this point wasn’t sure if he wanted to give the cowboy his sincerest gratitude when all this was over or throttle him with his serape. 

Hanzo seemed to appreciate the levity, though. He breathed out a relieved sigh. “May you and your,” he paused, struggling with the correct address for members of the organization that had saved Genji’s life, given it purpose. Eventually, he settled with, “teammates,” though a frown made it clear that the appellation didn’t fully satisfy him, "enjoy the treat." He shifted again, not forward, but backwards. "It has come a long way." 

He was leaving. One of his boot-clad feet stepped past the threshold, out into the snow, and Genji floundered for something to say, something to keep him from leaving, or at least to ask _why_? Why come if he wasn’t going to stay?

“Your organization is illegal. I am a wanted fugitive and former yakuza. Surely, you would not trust me with the safety of your fellow members?”

One of the most wanted out-laws in the Western hemisphere glanced sideways at Genji, before stepping forward with his arms outstretched and his gun plainly holstered. “That’s a lot of words you just said, and when you put them together, they make a lot of sense, but… no one should have to spend the holidays alone.” With a grudging slowness, Hanzo edged away from the door. “Where are you heading to, anyway?”

Hanzo’s gaze slid to the wall. “A nearby hotel. I’ve booked a room.” 

And Jesse didn’t roll his eyes, for which Genji was eternally grateful, but if such a thing were audible, then it came out clear as day in a blatantly unconvinced, “Sure thing.” He closed the distance between him and Hanzo in the span of time it took for his brother to glare, and then there was an arm pressed lightly against Hanzo’s back, and confusion flooded his expression as he was gently guided away from the exit. “Come on, there’s a couple people who’ve been dying to meet ya.” 

Now that the initial encoutner was done, the three of them made their way inside, while Genji silently berated himself for freezing up.

 

Once the countdown had completed, and Lena, Emily, and Winston had all trudged off to bed, each of them a little tipsy, or at least tipsy enough to warrant Jesse following along to make sure they got where they were headed, Genji looked around to find that Hanzo had pulled a disappearing act on them. 

It was only natural, after all. Hanzo had never wanted to come to Overwatch. After a life spent doing what he didn’t want to for an organization he’d had no choice in being a part of, maybe it wasn’t fair of Genji to force him into another. And yet, it was the only way to be close to his brother again.

He panicked. “Athena, could you tell me where Hanzo is?”

It only took her a second to check the security feeds. “Hanzo Shimada is still on base. He is currently seated on the highest level of the training range.”

Knowing she could see him, Genji unlatched his visor to flash a quick smile at the closest camera. “Thanks, Athena.”

 

Armed with this new knowledge, Genji raced to the training grounds, though once he at least had his brother in sight, he lingered by the equipment long enough to slow his heartrate. It would’ve been child’s play for him to climb the perch, especially with his enhancements, yet he decided to forgo the quick method for the slower ladder climb, as alerting Hanzo to his presence early would give him some time to prepare. 

Reaching the first rung wasn’t a problem. His metal palms collide with the bar with a jarring clang. Above him, he saw Hanzo’s muscles tense. 

It was cold enough outside that the fingerless gloves he wore and windbreaker were more than warranted, and though he’d mostly abstained from the alcohol that night (which was admittedly strange since Hanzo had never been adverse to drinking around company before) it was still far too cold to be positioned at such a high altitude with no protection for his head or ears. 

The idiot was going to catch a cold. 

When at last Genji had hauled himself onto the platform, he strode over to Hanzo’s side and settled down. Their feet dangled over the edge. The gulls had long migrated for the winter, leaving them with the roll of the frosted waves from the shore and the whistle of the frigid wind. Quietly, Genji started, “ I like the new look.”

Hanzo huffed incredulously, tilting his head slightly to fix him with a disbelieving, “Do you?”

“May I ask what brought on this change?”

His expression growing distant and inscrutable, Hanzo passed his hands over the shortened hairs. Genji didn’t know for sure why he had cut his long hair the first time, but he suspected. 

Eventually, the moment stretched too long. Genji called his name, unintentionally startling him, as Hanzo reacted with a jolt, as though he’d forgotten his presence. Before Genji could press the issue, however, Hanzo opted to somewhat defensively answer the question Genji had posed a full minute before, “I have been wearing clothes that went out of fashion a thousand years ago. I believe I was due for a change.” 

Now he was just parroting Genji’s own words back at him. It was frustrating that Hanzo did not appear ready or willing to give him an honest answer, since he doubted that five minutes with him would have convinced Hanzo of something that an entire adolescence spent trying to persuade him of the same hadn't. 

Instead of pointing that out, however, Genji inquired with a twinge of anxiety, “What did you do with all your usual clothes?” The thought of Hanzo throwing away the _kyudo gis_ , which were as much a part of him as they were a tribute to the traditions of their culture, didn’t sit well with him. 

As though sensing the path his thoughts had taken, Hanzo was quick to assure, “I still have them.”

“In a hotel?” Genji asked, thinking back to Jesse’s earlier skepticism. 

“In a duffel bag.” When Genji said nothing in response, Hanzo continued with a hint of smugness, “I have been on the run all this time, it would be far more shocking if I could not carry everything I owned.” For an instant, it was as though no time had passed. Then a shadow of well-worn grief passed over Hanzo’s features, his fingers curled over the cold platform’s edge, and Genji was forced to accept that _he_ was that shadow. Unable to bear looking into his visor any longer, Hanzo’s focus slid to slightly above it, as he struggled, “I cannot pretend that I am not who I once was, even as I try to…”

“Become someone new?” Genji suggested when his brother seemed to falter. 

“Someone better.” He shifted to stare at their feet, at the training ground, at the frozen sheets of ice on the water. A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “You still call me brother, even after everything I have done. I wish to become a man who is worthy of it.” 

Hope bloomed once more within Genji, an impossible flower in the midst of winter. He felt a heady lightness, and without thinking, said, “Well, you will have to work hard. I have become rather incredible over the years.” 

Again, Hanzo looked startled, nearly as startled as he felt. Silently, Genji begged him to say something, anything, but though his mouth parted, no sound came out. His teeth bit into his lip, his expression shuttered. He stood up. “It has been an eventful night.” Then looking down at him, asked, “Can you sleep?”

Confused, Genji cocked his head, casting a green light over the platform. “Looks aside, I am not actually an Omnic.” 

“That is not what I-“ The sentence devolved into a frustrated hiss. He stopped, loosened his fists, and breathed, “Okay.” And a second time. In through his nose and out through his mouth, long and slow. “Okay.”

When he opened his eyes, they seemed clearer, more focused. It was enough that Genji dared to venture, “It is too late to rent a room at this hour. Will you stay?” 

This time, Hanzo didn’t merely look at him, his contemplative gaze pierced through him, “Would you let me leave?” 

“Anytime. Whenever you want.” Maybe Winston would protest letting a mercenary out into the world now that he knew the names and numbers of those positioned at Watchpoint, but Overwatch wasn’t the organization it had once been and it certainly wasn’t Blackwatch. It had to be something new, or it would fail. “You are not a prisoner here, and you never will be.”

There was a soft rustle of fabric moving against fabric, the sound nearly inaudible over the wind, yet Genji looked up to see a gloved hand outstretched for him to grasp.


	39. Holding On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (OverRim au) In this alternate Pacific Rim and Overwatch au, the Shimadas join the Shatterdome crew after a sizable winning streak, but nothing lasts forever. Sometimes, the best way to hold onto something... is to let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaegers:
> 
> Genji & Hanzo - _Shimada Dragon_
> 
> Jamison & Mako - _Junkhog_
> 
> Efi & Lucio - _Orisa_

Pressing his lips together to suppress an exasperated groan, Morrison leaned over his desk, allowing the edge to dig into his chest as he began rubbing soothing circles into his temples, anything to stave off the threat of an oncoming migraine. 

“We’re not calling it the Sparrow,” snapped Hanzo Shimada, the oldest of the Jaeger pilots from Japan. One would think that after a several hour flight across the Pacific, his long, nearly-waist length hair would not look so glossy, nor the dark eyeliner emphasizing the archs of his dark eyes to be so wholly unsmudged. Tuning out the squawked retort, “And why not?” from Genji, the younger brother and an entirely different animal, Morrison idly pondered what his secret was. Jack had a reputation to uphold, appearances to keep, and even he couldn’t help climbing out of bed with the look of a man who’d crawled out of a laundry basket. 

Sometimes, life wasn’t fair. 

The pilots had been alternating between English and their native tongue since their petty argument over the name of their Jaeger began, and the worst of it was, Morrison didn’t actually think they were doing it to spite him. If anything, they seemed to have forgotten his very existence. 

Hanzo, who’d thus far held his temper rather well, threw his hands up, “Because it only refers to you!”

“Yeah?” Genji frowned, his gaze narrowing as he flailed for an appropriate response. At the same, Morrison wondered if Gabe had raided his liquor cabinet again. There had better be some whiskey left or the man was going to buy him a goddamn bar. “Well, Lone Wolf is stupid!”

Settling back into his seat, Hanzo scoffed, “At least a wolf is a predator. If we name our Jaeger after a small bird, the kaiju will laugh themselves to death.”

“See?” Genji gesticulated widely, nearly knocking over a paperweight and killing Jack’s patience. “He’s practically arguing my point for me!”

In Morrison’s professional opinion, they were a pair of young punks. Rich kids from a wealthy background that, up until the day the kaiju tore through their home, had never had to deal with a real problem in their lives, not with their father funding their extravagant lifestyles, and still they’d been chosen for the Jaeger program. It didn’t help that they’d achieved a solid victory from every battle they’d engaged in thus far. 

As if he didn’t have enough reckless hotshots on his team. 

The boys were young – Genji had barely even been old enough to apply when he was accepted. Since Hanzo was in his early twenties, it made sense that he was generally more stoic and withdrawn than his sibling, which Jack had noticed as soon as they’d stepped off the helicopter. Unlike Genji, who’d immediately set to flitting about the base like a hummingbird on steroids, waving hello and making friends, Hanzo had been all business, asking only for the location of their quarters so that they could unpack their things. Beyond the most basic of formalities, he was a shut door, which made the ease with which Genji riled him up all the more surprising. 

Fortunately, Morrison was here to train and deploy soldiers, not supervise children. 

“It’s already been christened the Shimada Dragon.” He told them levelly, expecting some sort of protest from the pair. In the end, the pilots pulled faces that were nearly identical in their disdain, but refrained from voicing any complaints. 

Feeling that headache coming on again, Morrison sighed. He bet Reyes never had to deal with this from the hardened pilots in the Blackwatch division. Well, with the exception of his latest recruit, but that boy was a special case.

 

Walking through the dome on their way to the loading deck, Hanzo could feel the eyes of the Jaeger engineers tracking them. It would be their first time working with this crew, most of whom he was sure couldn’t speak his or Genji’s native tongue, but they were fluent enough in English that he suspected it wouldn’t be a problem. 

For his part, Genji soaked up the attention like he’d been trapped under a rock for most of his life, which was ridiculous. Though they’d never been commissioned a Jaeger of their own until now, having instead piloted old or used Jaegers from either the few drifting pairs who'd retired or from those who'd left a salvageable Jaeger behind after their deaths. Unsurprisingly, both the latter and the former were few and far between.

Using those Jaegers had always felt like stepping into someone’s shoes, and Hanzo knew that Genji was looking forward to piloting a mech customized to their drift, because he felt the same. 

Idly, Hanzo watched him wave cheerfully at members of Shatterdome staff in their bright orange jumpsuits as they strode by. It seemed nothing, not even being woken in the middle of the night to fight a kaiju, could taper his boundless enthusiasm. 

Back home, Genji always seemed to have his own gravitational pull, as he attracted fans across the globe with his odd hairstyle and charming personality. Talk show hosts tended to direct their questions to him more than his sullen older brother, which was just fine by Hanzo. He’d never coveted the crowds or the magazine covers, and honestly preferred to avoid public speaking if he could help it, but the constant drain of Genji’s focus could be frustrating, as he never seemed to realize that their fame would last only so long as they kept winning. As nice as it was to be appreciated, none of it would matter if a city was decimated on their watch. 

It often led to arguments between them. Arguments which had to be hashed out before they could drag them down in the drift. One of the main issues was that any training Hanzo received to hone his concentration and combat were instantly passed to Genji through the mental bridge formed upon their joining, which meant that, technically, Genji didn’t need to do any of it himself, as he could simply siphon off of Hanzo’s experience. And for the most part, Hanzo allowed it, though the end result was a stirring resentment which clung stubbornly to any knowledge shared between them. 

Things were strained between them for a time, before Genji seemed to accepted the ill feelings as a part of the drift, and Hanzo learned to hold that part of himself back from the meld. It wasn’t too hard to do. There were more important things to consider during a battle than such petty concerns. 

See, Hanzo had never wanted fame, and what he did want, Genji couldn’t give him. It was the way things were and he’d come to terms with that fact. So, no, he no longer envied his brother his free spirit. As long as the pair of them could survive this war, he would be satisfied. And if that meant shouldering the lion’s share of the work so that Genji didn’t get them killed, then so be it. 

“…nzo?” Hanzo shook himself out of his reverie, and was unsurprised to see Genji leaning in closely to scrutinize him with his brows furrowed in concern. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said with a breezy flip of his wrist, “I’d think you were cheating on me with another drift partner, _anija._ ” When Hanzo didn’t immediately reply with a snappy comeback, however, Genji made as though to check his forehead for fever, causing Hanzo to take a step back with a quick swipe to bat the offending palm away.

In the split second it took Hanzo to regain his bearings, a shadow flitted across Genji’s expression, but before he could think much of it, Genji laughed. “Looks like you’re fine.” A siren wailed over the loudspeaker, resulting in an increase in worker activity, and a stream of orange bodies cut between them. Hanzo fought against the current, trying to keep up, but Genji merely smiled, giving a little salute as he continued on without him. “I’m going on ahead. See you in the cockpit!”

By the time the surge of staff had parted enough for Hanzo to squeeze through, he was gone, and Hanzo didn’t know if he wanted to scream or tear his own hair out at the roots. There wasn’t any point in Genji making his way up to the cockpit alone. He was going to have to wait for his arrival, anyway, so he might as well have helped him through. 

For a moment, he stood still, seething, before taking the errant emotion and sealing it away with the others he’d deemed unworthy of the drift. A tingling sensation on the back of his neck told him he was being watched. Following the pull, he snapped his attention to a spot slightly above the Numbani Jaeger’s front hoof. It was a vibrantly painted quadruped, with stripes of lime green circling the cuffs of its many limbs and metal horns, a barrel-shaped chassis, and the cartoonish head of a tree frog sprayed onto its torso. And there, behind its front knee, was a glimpse of tan fabric and a plaid patterned sleeve before the unwanted observer ducked out of sight. 

Strange.

He strode briskly into the elevator, then jammed the button to close the doors with more force than was strictly necessary. This was exactly the kind of stunts Genji had pulled when they were kids. It would appear that not even an apocalypse could force him to mature past the mindset of a spoiled child. Well, if it was freedom from the family he’d wanted, he’d gotten it. Japan had been decimated by the initial wave of attacks. Most of the islands weren’t even habitable, anymore. It hadn’t been a death knell for the clan, but it had certainly changed their priorities. Rather than dealing with extortion, they’d dedicated every ounce of their remaining wealth and manpower to rebuilding the nation, for what was the point of controlling a land of empty streets and rubble? 

There was simply no time to worry about a reluctant second heir. Hanzo imagined that after the kaiju were at last defeated and the rift was closed, Genji would be free to go and do whatever pleased him. It would have been naïve of Hanzo to believe that the brewing sense of resentment in their drift was his alone. 

Yes, if Genji so wished it, they would never have to see each other... 

A soft sigh escaped as he placed his hand on the cool metal wall, rested his forehead against it, then slowly curled his fingers into a fist. Condensation crept over his distorted reflection.

Suddenly, the elevator jerked, jolting Hanzo to alertness, and the sight which greeted him stole his breath away. Through the glass, he saw their Jaeger being prepped for launch at the docking pad. It was already hooked into its harness, and it towered over the workers doing their last minute adjustments and checks with the ambivalence and majesty of a god. 

Green and blue streaks painted in dramatic angles around its tinted black visor gave it the impression of a gaze narrowed in challenge, while its body, which was lighter than the Australian team’s Jaeger, yet thicker and sturdier than the Numbani, gave the impression of armor styled in the garments of their ancestors. Though it pained him to admit it, there was no small part of him rejoicing at the thought of doing battle in such a marvel. 

Tentatively, he reached for his brother’s consciousness through the remnants of their previous drift. It was fluttering and erratic, spiking with excitement and nerves in equal measure. Drawing back, Hanzo allowed himself a small smile. It seemed that they could still agree on something, after all.

 

Hanzo hadn’t set foot in the disk-shaped structure utilized as a control center for more than a second before a young Numbani girl waved to him from the other side of the room. In a blink she’d gone from standing beside Morrison with a solemn expression as she looked over the shoulders of technician he was talking with to monitor the seismic readings on the radar, to deftly navigating her way across the room. Not even her co-pilot had realized she’d moved until she was already halfway across, and in the next blink, she was standing right in front of a Hanzo, a welcoming smile on her youthful face as she reached out to shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Shimada. It’s very nice to finally meet you.” Taking in her pale flight suit, Hanzo realized that the girl could only be Efi Oladele, the youngest pilot and engineer in the Jaeger Program. Either that, or Morrison was desperate enough to start recruiting from elementary schools. He sincerely hoped it was the former.

Bending down slightly to meet her at eye level, Hanzo shook her gloved hand. Her grip was sure and firm. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Oladele.”

Somehow, her smile widened, and she leaned with a conspiratorial whisper, “ I know you haven’t been here long, but did you happen to see Orisa?” It was possible. He’d certainly seen a Jaeger with horns that perfectly matched the objects hanging from the hoops attached to her headpiece, and he doubted it was a coincidence. 

“Orisa?” Hanzo asked aloud, causing the girl to beam with pride. “Is that the name of your Jaeger?”

“Actually, Orisa’s not just her Jaeger.” Her copilot, having finally tracked her down, rested a hand on her shoulder. “Efi helped create her. Four legs for added stability will make it extra hard for those fish monsters to take us down in a fight.” For the entire time he’d spoken so highly of her, Efi had regarded him with a starstruck gaze, which was only broken when Lucio bent down to tug playfully on her braids. “She’s a smart cookie this one.”

She swatted him away, grinning, “And centaurs are the coolest!”

There was short pause. Then with the air of someone imparting great wisdom, Lucio nodded sagely, “That is also true.”

It would have been nice to speak with him, but outside, standing on a platform that led into the Shimada Dragon’s cockpit, Hanzo could see his brother being prepped with the artificial spinal column used to latch them into their harnesses. Despite his usual devil-may-care demeanor, he seemed anxious, as his gaze never seemed to settle on any one face for long. 

After politely excusing himself from their company, Hanzo began to make his way over to the bridge. Upon spotting him, Genji relaxed. “Oh, there you are, brother,” he greeted with false bravado, as though he hadn’t been sweating his absence a moment before. Running his fingers through his green spikes, he added, “What took you so long? We were just about to start without you.”

“No, you weren’t,” Morrison cut in. It seemed he’d briefly left his post to see them off. “The strain of piloting the Jaeger alone would kill you.” A stout engineer with a curly red beard inserted Hanzo’s artificial spine into his suit, causing him to stiffen with a wince as it synced with his nervous system. It didn’t help that Morrison slapped both him and Genji on the back immediately after. “Get out there, take it down, and then get back here in one piece. That’s an order, gentlemen."

 

While they waited on their final suit preparations, Genji watched without comment as Hanzo tugged a hairtie off his wrist, placed it between his teeth, gathered his long locks into a tight bun, and then deftly secured it with the band. 

Eventually, he broke the silence with, “Morrison seems like a bit of a stick in the mud, doesn’t he? Remind you of someone?” They were each handed their black helments, which they prompted shoved onto their heads. The pair took a deep, cleansing breath, allowing the pure oxygen to inflate their lungs. It would take some adjusting to, but certainly not so much as it had the first time. 

For a moment, Hanzo debated dredging up his memory of Genji panicking on the bridge, but eventually decided against it. It was enough that one of them was exceedingly petty. “One would think,” he ground out, though too late for the retort to retain its intended edge, “you would know better than to antagonize those whose thoughts you will soon be sharing.” 

So briefly that Hanzo could almost convince himself he imagined it, Genji’s perpetual grin faltered. When he looked again, though, there it was, as infuriatingly smug as ever. “Hey, it’s not like your opinion of me could get any lower, right?” Their shoulder pads scraped when the cockpit door swung open, allowing Genji to shove past him. 

Shaking off his astonishment at the retort – there was a time and place for such things, after all - Hanzo moved silently to his stand, latched his feet to the pedals that would sync him to the Jaeger’s limbs, then grabbed onto the cold metal handholds. Once they were both secure, the cockpit was dropped down a shaft. Combining the ConnPod with its Jaeger always felt a bit like having your stomach drop on a carnival attraction, but thanks to experience and foreknowledge, the pilots were able to remain mostly unflappable during the process. 

While they got their circular holograms and radar online, Morrison gruffly gave them a brief description of the kaiju. Glimpses of it by helicopters and satellites seemed to suggest that the creature had wings, as well as inky markings around its eyes and a hooked beak. Officially, it was designated Otachi, but had unofficially been dubbed Shrike due to its avian qualities, which wasn’t all that amusing on its own, except Hanzo could feel a thrill of trepidation filter through the drift at the appellation, and he glanced sideways to see a slight look of alarm cross Genji’s face. Switching to their native tongue, Hanzo couldn’t help but tease, “ _Do not tell me you’re getting superstitious, little brother._ ”

Though he still looked unsettled, Genji mentally flipped him off.

“Neural bridge initiating,” a voice taut with apprehension announced over the comm, though the man, presumably a scientist, hid it remarkably well, “in 3…2…1”

The forming of the neural link always hit like a sucker punch to the gut, and this time was no different. Memories of birthdays he’d attended flashed behind his eyelids at a furious pace, blending together into images of beaming children he vaguely recalled from the village, laughing adolescents he’d never seen, the warmth of a father he’d never known, and an older brother that slowly grew colder and more detached with time, as the recollections themselves shifted from warm, earthy tones to a wash of blues and greys. Not for the first time, Hanzo bit down on his inner cheek to keep himself grounded. It was disorienting even for veterans, seeing life through another’s eyes, yet studies postulated that siblings suffered a reduced amount of strain, since a majority of the memories were shared to begin with, and if he could just make it through the initial tumultuous wave, as he’d done before, Hanzo was certain that it would even out, become bearable. Tolerable. 

Ripples of confusion and frustration passed through the connection, along with the ever persistent ache of old, unhealed hurts, and the sharp sting of new ones. Forcing them together like this had been a mistake. The freedom Genji had craved his entire life had been snatched away from him the instant they’d proven to be drift compatible. 

Sensing Genji’s growing discomfort with the path his thoughts had taken him, Hanzo surreptitiously distanced himself from the topic, as though he’d simply decided to focus on the situation at hand. Their joining could so easily and effortlessly become an endless loop of negative thoughts feeding greedily off each other, if not for those small concessions. It’s what allowed them to focus on the mission, on all the millions of lives that could be snuffed out if they were to fall now. No matter their hang-ups, failure was unthinkable, and on that, at least, they could always agree. 

“The drift is steady and holding, Marshal.” 

They were separate and the same, parts of a whole. On their own, they were small, insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, but in the Jaeger, they were giant. They commanded the sea and the lightning, and when the helicopters hooked their shoulders to lift them out of the hangar, the sky itself bowed to their will. There was nothing that was beyond them, no bonds that could hold them, and so when Genji threw his head back with an exhilarated yell, it was with an unchecked thrill that also ran through Hanzo, the rage and fury of a river bursting through the confines of a dam. He bared his teeth when the cords holding them aloft released, allowing them a brief taste of weightlessness before their legs plunged to the bottom of the sea with a jarring impact. 

When they stabilized, Hanzo burst out with a raucous laugh, surprising both of them. Shifting in his harness, Genji flashed him a wide grin. “You ready to show this overgrown lump of _sashimi_ what a pair of ninjas can do, _anija_?” Though he yelled over the howl of sirens and the reactor churning beneath them, it wasn’t necessary in the slightest. With his words resounding within him, clear as fresh spring, Hanzo felt his own lips curl in wordless challenge, and saw Genji's do the same.

In perfect unison, they reached behind their backs to draw gleaming katanas from their sheathes and swung them forward, throwing colors from the pulsing illumination at their metallic edges over the ocean’s roiling surface as they waited for their radar to pick up on the kaiju swimming below. “A location sooner rather than later would be preferred, guys,” Genji called into the comm, his nerves drawn tight as the storm’s deluge continued to hamper their vision. In an effort to help, and if not that, at least refrain from exasperating the issue, Hanzo inhaled deeply, calmly – steadying himself, and hopefully his brother, as well. 

“It’s close, Dragon.” Morrison warned over the commlink. “Don’t let it get the jump on you.”

Taking into consideration that a creature capable of eating a bridge could come charging at them at any time, Genji understandably rolled his eyes. 

_Well, there goes our first plan._

Muscles tensed with anticipation, they scanned the roiling black water for any sign of the beast breaching the waves. It seemed like an insurmountable task with the roar of the engine and the relentless howl of the storm dulling their senses, until Hanzo caught sight of a growing amorphous shadow beneath the surf. A smile curved his lips as the drift dredged up a particularly fond memory with perfect clarity. “Do you remember,” Hanzo called, “when Father took us spear fishing in the mountains?”

Genji laughed. “It’s like you’re in my head!” 

Together, they shifted into the stance for a downward strike, and the Jaeger’s limbs followed, as it brought the fluorescent blades together with a shriek of metal, then raised the swords which flashed like lightning against the clouds. With even breaths, they remained still, like a pillar impervious to its surroundings, as they waited patiently for the perfect opportunity. Finally, at the instant a translucent fin cut through the crest of a wave, they plunged the conjoined blades down into the dark waters, felt the brief resistance of flesh before the katana’s heated tip burned through it, and the sky was rent with a gurgling screech. Around them, the sea seemed to boil. 

Alarmed, the pilots leaned back, their arms straining with the effort of trying to free their weapon, which stubbornly refused to budge. It was lodged in the beast’s sinuous body, entangled in its cartilage and muscle. They were still gripping the handle when a scaled back rose above the surface, causing them to rise with it. In fact, it was becoming increasingly apparent, as the still rising giant began to lift the Jaeger off the ocean floor, that they had severely underestimated its size. Wings with neon blue veins shot out from the waves, eclipsing the sky, and with a single powerful thrust, propelled itself out of the sea, taking the Jaeger with it. 

Brows furrowed with concentration, Hanzo wrenched his grip free of the blade, hoping to send them into a short freefall that would be softened by the sea, but Genji clung on, his eyes screwed shut and his temples soaked with sweat. “Genji!” Hanzo screamed. “We have to let go!” If they did it now, there was still a chance that the resulting displacement caused by their fall wouldn’t harm the shoreline. A look of pain crossed Genji’s features. Hanzo caught glimpses of their home in ruins. It was why they’d joined the Jaeger program, to prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. 

But homes could be rebuilt. 

For a heartstopping second, Hanzo wondered if Genji wouldn’t keep holding on, even as the creature took them higher and higher, the way a bird of prey might to crack a turtle shell, then the stress in his features eased a fraction, and they were plummeting, their legs bent and arms braced to soften the landing.

In the end, the sensation still bore an uncomfortably close resemblance to falling from a great height onto solid concrete, but the resulting wake, while tremendous in its height and berth, lost enough of its momentum and power in its journey to the mainland to do little more harm than sweep the majority of the beach away. It was doubtful that the citizens of New York would even mind its loss much until the summer months arrived. 

When they were once again stable, though lacking a melee weapon now that their swords were stuck in the airborne beast’s back, a siren sounded in their cockpit, and their comm, which had become strangely silent during their struggle, now surged furiously to life. “Disengage, Dragon!” The rapid tapping of the scientists and strategists trying to devise both an exit and a contingency plan could be heard in the background. “That thing is a Level 4. It's more than you can handle on your own.” Genji stiffened. 

The kaiju sailed through the wind currents, unable to hide thanks to the iridescent glow of their katana cutting through the gloom, before turning around in a large arc. The brothers hadn’t thought the creatures capable of hatred before, yet the chill its bottomless gaze sent crawling up their spines was undeniable. Perhaps sensing their hesitation, Morrison shouted, “Disengage, Dragon, that’s an order!”

Behind them, a city of lights glowed like a steady beacon in the dark. It was home to thousands, if not millions of people. Families. How many of them would perish if Otachi made it to the shore? 

Hanzo saw Genji turn his head to face him. Then, quietly, “We can’t leave.”

Their eyes met, understanding passing silently between them. On that day, in that hour, a single nod was all it took to decide their fate. Disregarding their orders, they widened their stances with a backwards sweeping motion, curled their raised palms into claws, extended their left arms past their waist, while their remaining limb bent at the elbow. Genji’s handhold changed, transforming into a floating disk with a bar running through its center. He gave the bar a yank, and the Jaeger’s right hand folded in on itself to expose the Tesla Cannon built within. Its turbines whirred at such high velocity that the heat and tremors generated could be felt running through the entire appendage, as Genji distantly noted the growing warmth racing up his arm, the vibrations in his bones. 

Almost the instant creature tipped its massive wingspan to circle around for a counterattack, it was upon them. But the kaiju was intelligent. It flew over them, keeping carefully out of range, then unhinged its jaw to pour gallons of acidic saliva on the hull. The smell of the cockpit began to foul even before the sizzle of melting reinforced glass was heard, as the corrosive rapidly consumed the material, causing breaches that allowed for rainwater and sea spray to spew from the newly opened gaps. 

It arced in its flight pattern, intending to attack them once again from a distance, but emboldened by its triumph, it passed too closely this time, and Hanzo’s arm shot out to grab the beast by its reptilian tail. Otachi howled at its capture, flashing bright blue fangs and a mottled purple tongue, and scratched at the fingers wrapped around its tail, clawing off pieces of metal exoskeleton and gnawing on the wiring. 

Despite wincing at the unpleasant sensation of his skin being picked off his bones, Hanzo refused to allow his resolve to weaken. He held the monster firmly in the Jaeger’s grasp, giving Genji the opportunity to drive the Tesla Cannon into the kaiju’s stomach. It shrieked at the top of its lungs as its flesh was torn into. Poisonous blood gushed from the wound, contaminating the water and killing most of the surrounding wildlife.

At the same time, the tension in the tail broke. It separated from the kaiju in a display that seemed oddly reminiscent of a lizard’s self defense mechanism, then hung limply, a mass of misfiring nerve endings that hadn’t yet realized the appendage was dead. Thinking little of it, Hanzo let the discarded tail fall into the sea.

A crushing pressure around the Jaeger’s legs soon revealed his mistake. While the kaiju choked on its own corrosive blood, its tail climbed to twine around their carapace, then squeezed until the structure began to collapse in on itself. Screens flashed, showing the pilots exactly where they’d been damaged, though so did the growing ache in their ribs. 

But the creature was nearly dead. They could still finish this. 

With water pooling around their feet, Hanzo shouted to be heard over the dying kaiju’s shrieks, “Genji, listen to me-“ Genji turned to look at him with wide, frightened eyes at the same time that Otachi pitched forward, its jaws spilling its blood over their cockpit. It chewed through the resulting hole in a frenzy. Genji looked up into its leaking maw, and was torn from the cockpit. There was an entire side missing where his brother used to be, an ocean that went on with no end, and Hanzo could only stare, unable to comprehend the change. 

The backlash from the drift hit him like a hot poker in his brain. Terror, agony, despair, and a call for help, repeated over and over, bouncing in his skull. They're not his thoughts, not his feelings, but he knows who they belong to and the knowledge alone is enough to make him wish he were dead. 

As weak as it was, Otachi might have fallen into the ocean to drown, except the Jaeger halted its fall by burying its fingers into the creature's throat. Jagged bolts of white lightning cut through the storm, throwing the world into sharp relief just as Dragon raised it up by the loose tissue at its neck. Through the melted remains of the cockpit, Hanzo snarled at the dying creature, looking hardly human himself, and together they plunged the Tesla Cannon down its gullet, filling its chest with an expanding light until its ribs burst from trying to contain it.

Its delicate wing membrane shriveled in the resulting blast, its head vanished from existence. All that remained was its lowered half and its severed tail. The first sank beneath the waves in a flurry of billowing blue clouds, and the tail loosened its grip, as though realizing the battle was lost. 

Even so, it was torn off and discarded for good measure. 

Their swords had to be close now, somewhere beneath the waves, but Hanzo didn’t think about that. He didn’t think about much of anything, as he turned Dragon towards the shore. 

Later, after the rescue team found him and extracted him from the Jaeger, people would ask, “How did you manage to pilot the Jaeger alone?” 

And Hanzo would blink into the light, confused by the question. 

For not once during the journey, not for a single step, had he ever been alone.

 

The neural burden of driving Dragon on his own never managed to pierce the veil of panic, fury, and eventually numbness which had fallen over him after the battle. Trekking through the polluted water lapping at the mechanical giant’s limbs, he’d ignored the burn of a million dead-end signals firing in his brain. 

He paid for it when he woke up in a white room he couldn’t place with an IV sticking out his vein. Every additional sensation, sensory, auditory, textile, poured oil onto the flames in his mind. The world exploded with snippets of memory that danced around his own, blending and mixing until the lines between what belonged and what didn’t blurred into a bewildering muddle. 

He screamed for someone to tell him if his brother was alive, only to find himself repeatedly frustrated by the alarmed and uncomprehending glances his pleas garnered. He realized his mistake shortly before the Marshal was sent to talk some sense into him. 

“Hanzo,” Morrison told him in what was intended to be a soothing tone, “you have to calm down. The staff can’t help you if they can’t understand you.”

“With all due respect,” a dark-skinned man with a neatly trimmed beard and broad shoulders stepped through the doorway. “I think it’s fairly obvious what he’s saying, Jack.” 

Working his jaw, which felt about as soft and fragile as the rest of him, Hanzo tried, “教えてー” No, those weren’t the right syllables. Not the right sounds. Not for here. For home, maybe. Not here. “Tell me, please.” Something in their gazes sparked, telling him he had it right this time, so he forged ahead, even ignoring his wounds and sitting up in his eagerness. “Where is my little brother?” Morrison’s professional exterior seemed to fracture, exposing through its cracks a truth that Hanzo may have never accepted from his mouth. Biting down on his lower lip to keep himself from – from… (he wasn’t exactly sure what it was he was trying to contain, only that it couldn’t be released), Hanzo stared at his lap, his nails digging into the fabric of his gown. He didn’t want to ask. “Was he alive when I- when the kaiju…?” He couldn’t even bring himself to finish. 

The man with the beard took pity on him, if it could be called that. “The readings went offline immediately after he was ripped from the cockpit”.

_“No.”_

Morrison bowed his head. “I’m sorry.” The apology wasn’t wanted. “There’s no way to know for sure.” 

They stood there for a time, waiting for him to react, to speak, to acknowledge them in some way, but Hanzo never lifted his head from the coarse hospital blankets and the horrid pattern on his gown. They made no move to touch him, no pats on the back or claps on the shoulder. Instead, they watched, waited for a change which never came. Eventually, Morrison sighed. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury of waiting an indeterminate amount of time to see if this once promising pilot could be deemed fit for active duty again. There was still a war to fight.

He excused himself, leaving Reyes behind when he made no move to follow. And then it was just the two of them, one intensely focused, as though on a math problem, the other blank. Empty. 

It was debatable whether the kid could even hear what Reyes was saying at this point, but he’d be kicking himself if he didn’t at least try. “I’m not going to tell you not to beat yourself up about this, but…” Something flitted behind the Shimada’s glassy, unblinking stare. “The honest truth is you couldn’t have saved him.” The young man flinched. Reyes felt his fingers curl into fists as something inside him condensed into a icy ball, then released the tension with a sigh. Deliberately taking his eyes off the grieving pilot, he reached for the door handle, pulled it, paused, “Someday, that’ll mean something to you,” then stepped out into the hallway, allowing the door to fall softly shut behind him. 

When they were gone, Hanzo counted to a hundred. He waited what felt like hours for them to return, or for a nurse, a doctor, but the door remained shut. 

He counted again. One. Two. Three. _Ichi. Ni. San._

Then, when it became clear that there would be no further visitations, he slowly reached behind his head, dragged the pillow over his eyes, and mourned.

 

The following days passed in silence. 

While he didn’t bear the nursing staff any ill will, he spent his remaining time in the hospital wing unmoved and unmoving, transfixed by the scene playing out on repeat in his mind. 

_Genji, listen to me-_

What had he been planning to say? Would it have changed anything? Whatever it was, it’d been shattered when the kaiju breached the ConnPod, obliterated by the jarring sounds of his own name screamed into the drift long after the connection should have been severed. 

He vaguely recalled the other pilots coming to visit, Efi and Lucio more than once, but he had never acknowledged them. The very sight of them was like an accusation of weakness. How dare he remain in bed like this when his body was still intact? If he didn’t get back in a Jaeger, if he tried to leave the program, run as far from the sea as his feet could take him until his ears stopped ringing with his brother’s last cries, it was the young engineer and her copilot that would be forced to pick up his slack. 

He couldn’t run. 

A strangled sound escaped his firmly pressed lips. Afraid that the nurses would hear, Hanzo clapped a hand over his mouth, ignoring the now familiar burn at the corners of his eyes. 

He pushed off the mattress, forcing himself into a sitting position that tugged unpleasantly at the rows of ugly black staples lining his arms and torso. Burns discolored his skin on the majority of his body, though the most eye catching had to be the angry spiral of raw flesh circling his legs and stomach. It was raised and uneven, the worst of it covered with ointment and bandages. 

A full-length mirror in the corner of the room flickered with movement, and Hanzo stilled, suddenly unsure. He studied himself - the matted hair, the sickly pallor, the contracted pupils. 

After a short pause, he continued his descent by first lowering his legs to the floor. They shook and trembled under the slightest amount of weight, threatening to collapse beneath him. He clutched at the railing of his cot until the tremors eased, then gradually began shifting more and more weight from the bars to his limbs. By the time he stood on his own, he was drenched with sweat and breathing harshly with exertion. 

Once his heartrate was under control, he arranged his pillows to approximate his size and width, pulled the covers over them, then slid soundlessly out the exit, sticking to the shadows with his old instincts taking the reins. 

There was no access to the outdoors from his room, and therefore no way to be sure of the time, which made stealth the suitable option, since a patient walking alone at night would be spotted and apprehended regardless of how purposefully they walked, while an undetected presence would always go unmolested. It wasn’t until he slipped out into the nigh empty hall, lit by overly bright ceiling lights and whatever illumination spilled from the other patients' shuttered windows, that he was certain the majority of the Shatterdome’s occupants had retired to their quarters. Despite being armed with this new knowledge, however, he was still exceedingly careful to avoid the cameras, as there was always a team of nightshift nurses watching the monitors. 

The elevator would draw attention, he knew, so he searched the signs labeling each of the entrances he passed until finding the one with the stick figure walking down the staircase. After first checking to make sure pushing its bar wouldn’t trigger an alarm, he nudged it open, then ghosted into the stairwell. 

Damp air tickled his back and legs as his bare feet padded down the concrete steps, yet stealing a set of casual clothes from the laundry room on base simply didn’t occur to him. It was unnerving, being so vulnerable, though the feeling was too distant to factor into his judgment. 

Through luck, skill, or some combination of the two, he managed to scale the staircase without cutting the soles of his feet on any metal shards, cross the Shatterdome whilst avoiding detection from staff or cameras, and then make the leap from the railing to the scaffolding built around Dragon’s ruined metallic cranium without spraining an ankle. For a terrifying heartbeat, when his fingers scraped at the wooden bars without purchase, gravity took hold, but a desperate lunge allowed him to hook an elbow through the loop of a safety harness hanging from a wooden stake, and he heaved himself onto the platform with his stomach residing firmly in his throat. From where he rested, he could see the equipment on the ground, chairs and ladders and trolleys, all of which appeared no larger than the furniture fitted for a doll’s house. 

Falling would have been a quick death, at least. 

The repairs worked on Dragon were immense, if not complete. While the head would require weeks of restoration before it could once again be viable for battle, the drift system, which had been torn apart and gutted, presently appeared pristine and undamaged in the exposed ConnPod. Once he dropped into the cockpit, Hanzo stared at the innocuous-looking machinery. He didn’t need to wear the helmet to hear the crashing waves, the roars that shook the earth. 

The other half of the cockpit ended with, not a wall, but an abrupt drop into nothing. There was no second platform. It seemed they hadn’t gotten around to rebuilding the Jaeger’s right hemisphere, an observation which shouldn’t have hurt because, of course, these things took time, yet that came with its own undeniable sting, nonetheless. 

For better or worse, however, Hanzo hadn’t come there to pay his respects to a ghost. Instead, he gently placed the helmet on his head, then squeezed his eyes shut, imagining the sensation of the neural bridge connecting, crossing the distance, except everytime he tried to imagine his brother on the other end, a yawning abyss took his place. Thoughts and feelings poured out with zero reciprocity, flowing into the echo of the drift Hanzo had conjured up until the output became input again, in an endless loop of his own compounding senses. 

A tug from the drift demanded still more, and in spite of the young man’s willingness to give, Hanzo felt an inkling of fear kindled within him at its insistence. He resisted for a time, but lacked an anchor to keep him grounded in the present, a reason to cling to reality. That being the case, the stubborn pull eventually succeeded in its temptation, in its silent promise. Inside the ConnPod, the scent of burned wiring and melted steel hung heavily in the air, but within the drift, the smell of buttered popcorn clung to the carpeting and walls of a retro-style arcade.

Now finding himself standing next to a galaxy-themed pinball machine that played obnoxiously cheerful music while a list of highscores flashed on its headboard, Hanzo took his time in analyzing his surroundings. It was his memory, so it didn’t take long to identify the location. It was one of Genji’s favorite haunts. He would skip school sometimes to play there with his friends, and they happened to make a name for themselves as competitive gamers around the area. It was a classic case of big fish in a small pond, but even so, Hanzo couldn’t help feeling a spark of pride when he'd first noticed his little brother’s username climbing the top ranks.

Unlike those instances when he had to fetch Genji to drag him off to class or training, however, the arcade was empty, the carpet clean of stains and wrappers from careless children and adolescents. Though the games continuously emitted a cacophony of catchy jingles and cartoonish sound effects, only one seemed to be actively engaging a customer. They were standing on the other side of a row of first-person shooters, their elbows sticking out at their sides, and Hanzo stared at the familiar black band on their wrist, his chest constricting with a pressure that threatened to crush him. 

After a brief moment of hesitation, he dashed to the other side, breathless, to find Genji focusing intently on the screen, his palms curled around the controllers while an ape-like creature jumped repeatedly over a barrel. The end of a stick of pocky poked out from between his teeth, seesawing as he chewed.

“Oh, hey!” He waved cheerfully when he saw Hanzo, his eyes bright. “You’re back.”

Hanzo approached Genji’s side silently, his voice stuck in his throat. He coughed to free it, though the end result still came out sounding more strained than he would have liked, “What are you playing?” And Genji proceeded to regale him with a tale of a Monkey King who did not travel on a journey to the West to protect the heavenly scriptures, but stayed in his jungle and tossed bananas at his enemies. 

When at last he trailed off, either finished with the tale or convinced that his older brother wasn’t actually listening, it was to find Hanzo regarding the pixelated graphics with the unwavering concentration usually reserved for his studies. 

“Sounds interesting.” He looked up, meeting Genji’s curious gaze. They were close enough now that Hanzo could smell the chocolate on his breath, the acrid tang of his styling gel. Meanwhile, the ape-king idled on a log bridge built, perhaps incautiously, over a waterfall. “Care if I join you?” 

Wordlessly, Genji scooted over, allowing Hanzo room to maneuver the second set of controls, before exiting the round to restart the game on multiplayer.

 

Wakefulness announced itself with the subtly and grace of a crowbar prying itself between Hanzo’s eyelids. For a time, he sat at the bottom of the ConnPod, staring up at the Shatterdome’s ceiling through the gaping hole in Dragon’s roof. It took a while for him to register that he wasn’t chilled, despite his lack of forethought when it came to procuring casual clothes before he set off to find his way back to the drift, and he twisted to catch a glimpse of the crimson fabric clinging to his shoulders. The cloth appeared to be a blanket of some kind, and was obviously well cared for, as slight discolorations in the stitching suggested frequent repairs implemented with various levels of skill. 

Keeping that in mind, he folded the garment up neatly, then laid it on his Drive platform. As grateful as he was for the gesture, he had no desire to meet his mysterious benefactor, so if they wished to retrieve their belonging, they would only have to return to the ConnPod during his absence. 

Morning shifts in the Shatterdome started at around 0700, and since Hanzo had been set on a routine of beginning his daily exercises at least an hour beforehand, much to the eternal chagrin of his nocturnal sibling, it meant that he had at least enough time to return to the hospital wing before his absence was noted, as long as none of the nurses had seen fit to conduct an impromptu check on the patients at some point during the night.

Similar to the maneuvers he’d utilized the previous night, he climbed onto the Dragon’s highest point, a remnant of its visor then - careful not to slice the bare soles of his feet on the melted or jagged bits - made the leap from the reinforced glass to the railing, which thankfully proved its worth once again as a marvel of modern engineering. The dome had been created from scratch within weeks, an international rush job if there ever was one, but it would seem that the Swedish team tasked with its construction, as well as the manufacture and continuing upkeep of the Jaegers, was somewhat versed in the business of miracles. 

Keeping his gait elongated, Hanzo quickly burned off any residual stiffness through his sprint to the hospital wing, in the hopes of making up for any diminishment of stealth in the morning hours with reckless speed. In the end, he managed to slip into his room without drawing any attention, and barely broke a sweat in the process. With the exception of a sprinkle of color in his cheeks, there was little to suggest that he hadn’t spent the night in his cot. 

Bright crimson caught his eye when he moved to slip under the sheets, and he narrowed his eyes at the folded plaid shirt and jeans sitting on the seat beside his mattress. It would seem that his benefactor expected him to abscond on his medical confinement once more. Weighing his options, Hanzo eventually decided that wearing the gaudy outfit would, at the very least, save him from making a trip back to his own quarters, and so he stowed it in the closet, waited patiently for his daily visitors to come and go, then in the middle of the shift change from evening to night, slipped into the slightly oversized clothes and stole out into corridor. 

This became akin to a routine, forcing him to find snatches of fitful sleep between physical therapy sessions, mental evaluations, visitation hours, and spending time with Genji in the ghost drift. The fact that he was burning the majority of his energy reserves in reliving past interactions with his brother should have worried him more than it did, especially when, impossibly, Genji seemed to take note of his worsening state. Silences stretched longer, filled with the weight of an unspoken concern which Hanzo bore as best he could – by pretending it wasn’t there. He didn’t address the increasing frequency of Genji’s unhappy frowns, or the confusion evident in the dip of his pronounced brow. Once, when they were sitting in a ramen shop in Hanamura village, Hanzo was surprised to receive a double helping of Udon soup. He’d silently questioned Genji about it, who’d been digging into his yakisoba at the time, yet if there was ever an explanation, it wasn’t given before consciousness dragged him from the drift once more. 

Another time, when they were laying beneath a _sakura_ on a hill overlooking the village, Genji asked almost casually why he kept returning. Didn’t he have someplace he needed to be?

But there was no such place, and Hanzo told him as much. 

Lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head and his gaze locked firmly on the sky, Genji had smiled sadly, but said nothing.

 

It was decided that Jesse McCree was to be his new partner. 

Aside from brief glimpses of him in the cafeteria after he was released from medical, there was essentially no wealth of experiences with the man to draw an impression off of. They were strangers, plain and simple, yet Hanzo hated him with a vehemence that startled even him. It wasn’t the young pilot’s drawl, or his garish belt buckle, or even the wide-brimmed hat he wore over a messy head of brown hair. No, it was just that, with his being returned to active duty, Hanzo would no longer have the luxury to sneak into the ghost drift, not without his partner’s knowledge of the act. 

Though he’d already erased his pilot override from the Jaeger entry database more than once, there was no keeping such a secret from someone with access to his innermost thoughts. Even knowing that it wasn’t Jesse McCree’s fault, that he couldn’t possibly have known the effects this development would have, and likely had been given no say in the decision, didn’t completely exonerate him in Hanzo’s eyes. 

“He’s a boorish, intolerable brute of a man,” he’d complained to Genji after several painfully awkward interactions with the cowboy. They were standing in the middle of the arcade again, each of them wielding the plastic handguns from a shooting game with engrained ease, comfortable with their mirrored stances even if the weapons themselves were fake and the enemies were ravenous undead.

Glancing curiously at his brother, Genji expressed surprise that Hanzo would even speak to him about it, “Hey, is everything okay?” 

“Of course,” Hanzo said immediately, wincing when the zombie he missed with his next shot lunged at his side of the splitscreen, causing it to flash red. “Why do you ask?” 

The graphics abruptly stopped when Genji paused the game. He leaned against the stand, his arms folded against his chest with a slight frown on his face. “It’s just that you don’t usually confide in me with these things.” After wracking his brain for a response that wouldn’t seem out of place, Hanzo remained silent. Genji waited a minute more for him to speak, then turned back to the controllers with a sigh. “It sounds to me like he wants to be your friend, and he _is_ making an effort. Why not give him a chance?” 

Because he was worried about what McCree would see if he peered into his head. But rather than refer to people and events that the Genji of this time wouldn’t (thankfully) recognize, he chose instead to insist, “I am perfectly capable of surviving on my own.”

He didn’t expect to be pinned by a long, measuring stare. 

“Is that why you keep coming here?”

 

In spite of Hanzo’s prickly attitude, McCree continuously attempted to get close to him, even joining the Numbani and Brazilian pilot when they gathered around him for lunch. While fatigue lent itself towards Hanzo’s dour attitude and moody silence, the pair’s unceasing energy had a tendency of breaking through his haze, if only because he personally felt they deserved better company than a human-shaped cardboard cut-out, and liked to think that he was at least capable of surfacing from the depths of his melancholy long enough to give them that. If those moments of forced activity and interest had any impact on the cowboy, however, Hanzo couldn’t say. Unfortunately, that much attention was beyond him, but some distant part of him couldn’t help wondering if McCree wasn’t markedly kinder after those meals. 

It could have been his imagination. He was too tired to care. 

Their first simulation was, against all expectations, a complete success. 

Why was it so surprising? Because Hanzo brought as little to the drift as he did to their conversations. He kept his feelings locked away, safe, and the exercise should have ended right there, with his adamant refusal to share, except McCree let him in. Where he was closed, Jesse was open, and Hanzo saw in the grainy sepia of old remembrance a house barely large enough for one fitting four, a refrigerator empty more often than not, and a boy with his ribs poking against his skin and fingerprint bruises on his arms. The boy left his mother to find a family that could care for him when she couldn’t, anything to lighten her burden, to put food in the mouths of his siblings, but his new family put a gun in his hand, and with it the final bullet in his innocence. 

Jesse McCree’s life had ended long before the kaiju had ever made landfall, but where there was bleakness and despair, there was also hope. For when the dust settled, he was offered a choice – to use the skills he’d never wanted to make the world better for others, to find out what it was like to be one of the good guys. 

It was Gabriel Reyes who'd extended the invitation to join the Jaeger Program, Ana Amari who trained him. Respect mixed with affection to humanize the 1st Generation legends, causing Hanzo to see their imposing figures and his own previous run-ins with the Marshal’s trusted second in a new light. 

An understanding formed between them. While Jesse was willing to bare his soul, he would not ask the same of his drift partner, not unless he was ready to do the same. There was no pity tainting their connection, only tamped down curiosity, a yearning to get to know him, though Hanzo could recall having done nothing to warrant it, as he tended to spend daylight hours wandering the halls listlessly, often reacting with snapped, curt responses to any who dared try to lure him into conversation. 

Then he saw himself sprinting through the dome in the dark, himself curled up on his side, shivering in a hospital gown, and the identity of his benefactor became clear. It should have angered him, to know that he’d been secretly watched during his more vulnerable moments, but the spark of fire within him burned quick, fierce, and then was gone. 

When their neural bridge stabilized, allowing them to coexist in harmony and balance, which they proved by moving in sync to shift Dragon into an intimidating offensive stance, it was decided by the higher-ups that they would be deployed in the next assault. 

And as he’d done when their simulation was announced, Reyes argued against it. They were too green as a team, and one of them was still recovering. But Reyes didn’t have the power or the influence to stop what had been set in motion, and for the undue stress this caused him, Hanzo couldn’t help feeling an urge to apologize. After all, though neither of them had desired such an outcome, as it was, Jesse’s life currently resided in his hands.

 _Promise me you’ll bring him back alive._

_...I cannot._

__

Hanzo bowed his head at the memory, grinding his teeth as the final adjustments on his new white Drive suit were completed so they could enter the Jaeger and provide much needed support to Efi, Lucio, and the Australian pilots. Jamison had weakened the gigantic shark-like kaiju by lobbing explosives at it from a distance, which may have seared its flesh, but such measures were quickly rendered unwise when the beast charged, overtaking them and sinking its fangs into the steel of Junkhog’s chestplate. 

__

When they fell, Efi and her partner would be next. Meanwhile, their attempts to distract the creature from the Australians or immobilize it were proving to be ineffective, as it adapted to the blasts of their weaponized sound waves by countering the frequency with an earsplitting screech.

__

This was not the time to dwell on regrets, only action. 

__

At last the crew deemed them fit for battle, and they moved in unconscious unison to their stations. “Something wrong, Shimada?” Already strapped in, Hanzo tossed a questioning, borderline impatient glance at the cowboy, who awkwardly scratched the base of his neck at the attention while the neural bridge booted up in the background. “Just thought you seemed tense, is all.”

__

A light, heady feeling attacked Hanzo’s brain at McCree’s obvious, clueless concern. Now that the drift was activating, he could feel his anxiety, along with his frustration at Hanzo’s own lack of response, and discovered its cause - a dissonant smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

__

Then the neural bridge initialized, hitting them simultaneously like lightning poured into their veins and a punch to the gut, bringing to fruition a link tinged by worry and burgeoning hysteria, filling their mouths with the acrid tang of shame. McCree stared at him through the drift, and saw a golden light shining from the cracks in his partner’s carefully constructed mask. 

__

After that glimpse, however, Hanzo stuffed it all inside, and the light faded, dimming to a murky gray. When it was done, he frowned at the still starstruck McCree, resulting in his copilot scrambling for composure. Hanzo was glad for that, at least. They’d wasted enough time, already. 

__

Once they were deployed into the Hong Kong bay, their comm burst to life with the sound of Efi’s screams, Jamison’s colorful expletives, and Lucio’s desperate attempts to keep his head. An incoherent roar drowned them all as a chain burst from the Australian’s Jaeger to wrap around Knifehead’s throat. Claws scratched at the chains, tearing at the flesh beneath them, yet the chain’s grip merely tightened, becoming crushing as its larynx caved under the pressure. 

__

For a moment, it seemed that Dragon’s assistance was unneeded, after all. Then the kaiju curled its fists in the chain and yanked, dragging Junkhog through the crashing waves and into range of a lethal strike. Knifehead raked its claws over their torso, exposing the inner mechanics to the sea. Scalding steam billowed forth from the compromised core, enveloping the kaiju, and the injured beast reared back, its snout shiny with burns. 

__

Understanding that the kaiju would now stop at nothing to rend the Australians from existence, the Dragon pilots lunged between it and its incapacitated target, then broke the chain with their blade, thus drawing the beast’s ire onto themselves, as well as allowing Jamison and Mako to gain some distance. Despite the close quarters, McCree triggered one of the newest addition to Dragon’s repertoire, a gun barrel which erupted from the open palm on his side. “I can’t miss,” he muttered under his breath, then jammed the barrel into one of the creature’s swiveling eyes. 

__

And fired. 

__

Flames rushed from the socket with the sound and fury of a hundred fireworks, their tongues reflecting crimson in the black water’s surface, yet still it struggled, shrieking and writhing even as its mind was consumed by the heat. Knifehead pried itself from the barrel melted to its skin like a fish wiggling off a hook, then made the single best decision of its life, and ran. It dove for deep water, perhaps to regroup, maybe even to circle around and beset them with an underwater assault, but they would never find out, because after the barrel returned to the hollow compartment in Dragon’s limb, the katana Hanzo wielded began to emanate a pulsing azure glow.

__

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Ignoring him, Hanzo imagined gripping the light between his fingertips, pictured drawing it back to his shoulders. Somehow, the Jaeger seemed cognizant of his wishes, because despite belonging to an entirely different hemisphere, the right limb responded to his unspoken commands. “You listening to me, Shimada?” Something brushed against the edges of his consciousness, warm and familiar. “Oi. Hanzo!” 

__

He paused to shoot McCree an irritated glare. “Shut up and watch.” Then released the tension, sending a bolt speeding forward in a high arc that plunged into the sea, drawn by the energy signature of the bullet residing within the kaiju’s skull. The second projectile joined the first, splitting the bone and boiling the liquid within, leaving behind a corpse the size of a barge that floated to the surface.

__

 

__

With the exception of Dragon, none of the other Jaegers were able to make it to the base under their own power. Lucio and Efi tried, but the damage to their eardrums hindered their balance. Orisa made it several stumbling strides before collapsing onto it knees. They were extricated by helicopter, shouting at the top of their lungs and high on post-battle adrenaline. Though Hanzo shook his head at their enthusiasm, as neither had seen it fit to shut down their comms, the affection in the gesture was unmistakable. 

__

At his side, McCree chuckled under his breath. Though they hadn’t spoken much since their victory, the atmosphere in the ConnPod wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather the result of neither having felt the need to fill what had become a companionable silence. 

__

When they were docked once more in the dome, reports came in on Jamison and Mako’s status. While their Jaeger had received the brunt of the damages, having had its carapace literally ripped open, it seemed the pair had suffered only minimal injuries. Oh, they were soaked from head to toe, chilled and shivering with the beginning stages of hypothermia, but that didn’t keep Jamison from complaining loudly the instant he could keep his teeth still long enough to do so. 

__

Even his tracking water through the base and ceaseless bellyaching elicited relieved smiles from the crew teams and engineers, however, since such energy could hardly be expected from someone knocking on death’s door. 

__

In short, what the pilots had achieved that day – a victory with no casualties - was nothing short of a miracle. 

__

Buoyed by their success, Hanzo delayed removing his helmet, the feeling of the drift still alive beneath his skin, and in it, a waiting ghost. The instant he lost focus, or more accurately, redirected it, the connection grew tense with alarm. A soft smile graced Hanzo’s lips, for as his mind delved deeper, chasing a RABIT that was impatient to caught, thoughts brushed against his, filled with worry and confusion. He’d been followed, just as Hanzo had anticipated. Even though they barely knew each other, even though they’d only drifted twice, the cowboy would risk everything to save him. 

__

It was the kind of man McCree was, which was fortunate, because if he were anything less, Hanzo doubted that he would have ever found the resolve to truly share what, until now, had been a private source of both grief and solace.

__

The experience passed without fanfare, unknown to the rest of world. Hanzo pried his eyes open to see Jesse gaping at him, rendered speechless by the influx of information he’d been entrusted with, and then came the real shocker. 

__

_Hey there!_ A chipper voice called out of the drift. Meanwhile, Hanzo watched anxiously as the cowboy’s brows shot up to his hairline. _My brother’s told me a lot about you._

__

“Holy shit!” A wry snort echoed through the link at the cowboy’s reaction. 

__

_He’s as eloquent as you said, Hanzo._

__

It felt oddly conspiratorial, despite the audience. In fact, Hanzo nearly forgot that there even was an audience, until a gruff, deceptively calm message reached them from over the comm,“Everything okay in there, Jesse?” It seemed that time had indeed passed for them outside the drift as well. Hanzo glanced at his partner, relieved to see that he’d managed to reach some semblance of calm. Though it was at least partially a ruse, Jaeger pilots tended to have an advantage when it came to seeing through masks. 

__

Eager to distract him, Hanzo wordlessly reiterated, _Jesse?_

__

Amusement filtered through the link, not all of it his own. Sensing that, McCree casually shrugged, “We’re sleeping together.” 

__

There was a beat of deafening silence, then, “WHAT GODDAMN BALD-FACED LIES ARE YOU SPEWING IN THAT COCKPIT, INGRATE?!”

__

 

__

Once the celebrations had wound down to a few stragglers, McCree and Hanzo made their way to the rec room, where there was a cotton couch, sunken with age, a television set, and an abandoned, most likely stale bowl of popcorn. McCree flopped heavily onto the cushions, reached over for the popcorn, placed the bowl on his chest, then popped a fistful into his mouth. Biting back a derisive comment on the cowboy’s eating habits, Hanzo carefully arranged himself on the couch’s armrest, where he remained as he waited for the man to speak. “So – Ugh!” a hacking cough interrupted McCree when a kernel went down the wrong pipe. He started again, his eyes watering, “What’s the ghost of your little brother doing in my head, Han?” 

__

Unable to look at the cowboy directly, Hanzo kept his gaze trained on the burn scars marring the backs of his hands. “I am… not sure.” Genji died when they were in the drift together. What else was there to say? 

__

McCree shifted, one arm holding the popcorn awkwardly as he slipped an elbow beneath his head. “I never really got the chance to talk him, before… you know.” It was true that Hanzo was aware of what he was referring to, which made him all the more reluctant to speak. And yet, he’d known that such a topic would be unavoidable. “Mind telling me about him?”

__

Even so, “It is late, McCree. Surely, you must be tired,” he tried. 

__

McCree stared up at him with a frown. “It’s worth losing some sleep to know more about who I’ve gone and let into my head.” 

__

So it was, and once Hanzo got started, he found it was difficult to stop. He spoke for what felt like hours, about the village of their birth, and the legacy that would have determined their futures if the kaiju hadn’t dragged it all into the sea. From there, he moved onto Genji when he was a child, at a time when the diminutive their father had bestowed upon him represented nothing besides the affection of a parent. Later, it would be used to refer to his flighty nature, his inability to take his responsibilities seriously. But he was still a boy when the castle fell, and Genji had risen above the expectations of their family, eventually proving himself the best of them. In light of that, how could Hanzo ever hope to compare? 

__

The simple truth was he couldn’t. The most he could hope for was to stay with the Jaeger program, to battle the monsters that threatened humanity, and pray that what he accomplished could somehow serve to respect his brother's memory, even as he carried forth with the knowledge that it would never be enough. 

__

After all, it’d been Genji’s idea to join the program. 

__

“Now that’s a story I’d like to hear.” Hanzo blinked, nonplussed. He hadn’t realized he was still speaking. The cowboy waited patiently for him to regain his bearings, for which he was undeniably grateful. 

__

Joining the program hadn’t been about revenge for Genji. Oh, the destruction infuriated him, made his blood boil in his veins, but what was done was done and killing the creatures wouldn’t change that. No, he volunteered so that they could rescue others from a similar fate. Additionally, he’d grown up enchanted by stories of heroes, so the idea of piloting a mechanized behemoth to combat monsters appealed to the child in him, as well. 

__

His older brother, on the other hand, merely followed his lead. His future, which had been mapped out for him since his conception, had vanished in a matter of hours, and the clan's efforts to rebuild their empire on the sunken islands were the result of a pipe dream, which meant there was little to prevent him from signing up alongside Genji, if only to keep an eye on him. Plus, it seemed that he would have little chance of being accepted without a sibling or close relative to enter the drift with. 

__

Their acceptance should have been a forgone conclusion, the way most things were in their lives, yet they almost blew it in their first simulation, when Hanzo briefly lost focus, inadvertently dredging up an image of the mother Genji had never known, and Genji had chased the RABIT. Their careers as pilots had nearly ended before they’d even begun, and Hanzo would have been entirely to blame.

__

However, if they’d each been expelled that day, then perhaps Genji would still be alive to resent him for it. 

__

When the cowboy spoke again, his words came as though from a distance, in spite of their proximity. “Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same in your brother’s shoes, given the chance.” The former heir twisted sharply to regard him as the present rushed to engulf him with a razor-sharp clarity. 

__

“It was reckless,” Hanzo bit out through a clenched jaw, though the majority of his ire was directly inwards. “He could have been lost.” 

__

McCree sucked in his cheeks, a slight dip in his brow the only sign that he was considering his answer. “Nah.” He shook his head with a rueful grin. “Something tells me he knew well and good you’d never let that happen.”

__

Torn between shock and anger, Hanzo stood up quickly, ignoring the cowboy’s startled protests when he left without a word.

__

 

__

The fallout of that disastrous conversation could be felt around the base for days, though few understood what could have caused it. They kept their distance from each other, against the advice of their superiors, since the war was not over and such friction could easily lead to discord in the drift. Separately, they were advised to talk out their differences, yet every attempt to do so seemed to break down into an argument. 

__

Then they were strapped into Dragon with orders to collapse the Rift from the inside, and none of it seemed to matter. They resolved their differences through an unspoken agreement that the mission was more important than themselves, which was luckily enough for them to form the foundation of a stable neural bridge on. McCree fought carrying the weight of Hanzo’s grief on his back, aware that the ninja would carry the burden of his brother’s life to a watery grave if he could, something which he could sense from spikes of distress in the drift that didn’t belong to him or his partner would only upset Genji. 

__

And Hanzo was right to say McCree didn’t know him, but he didn’t have to. He’d caught glimpses of it in Hanzo’s memories, a spritely youth with a toothy grin and an indomitable spark of mischief in his spirit. A young man, uncertain of his place, searching for a purpose, for guidance, for direction. Unknowingly, Hanzo had set him on the path to finding everything he’d been searching for when he'd agreed to apply to the Jaeger program with him. However, when it came right down to it, the answer was obvious. Thrumming through the different, inaudible but louder than a thunderstorm was a single, ardent wish. 

__

_Live._

__

 

__

It pounded in McCree’s head when they plunged into the Rift with the largest kaiju either of them had ever seen, its corpse split down the middle by their superheated katana, becoming nigh unbearable when he was suffocating thanks to the leak in his oxygen hose. Genji’s shouts made him struggle feebly against the strong arms that pushed him into an escape pod, but it wasn’t enough, and Jesse furiously cursed Hanzo’s name for being so immensely stupid.

__

Anguish flooded through the ghost drift, staggering Hanzo’s steps as he clung to consciousness. Blindly, he followed the pull to the manual activation lever for Dragon’s self-destruct sequence, and through it all, thought he could feel someone supporting him, keeping his weak, oxygen-starved legs from crumbling in the flooded cockpit. He’d resolved to stay, to accept his death with grace and honor, yet his ears rang with his little brother’s desperate urgings for him to keep moving, leaving Hanzo with little choice but to listen. 

__

Mechanically, he strapped himself into the sole remaining escape pod, but lacked the strength to activate its ejection. The world blurred into a wash of sights and sounds, confusing his senses although he could no longer differentiate between reality and the drift. The Jaeger screen flickered to life, counting down the self-destruct, followed by the machine seemingly deciding by its own volition to eject its last escape pod. 

__

As he swam to consciousness, adrift in the sea with McCree kneeling at his side, his gaze soft with relief, the scent of buttered popcorn tickled Hanzo’s nose, along with cherry blossoms, and freshly cooked ramen noodles. Through the remnants of the ghost drift, he heard his brother’s laugh, and briefly felt his hand in his, as real as though he were sitting on the raft.

__

A whisper traveled on the wind, quiet, gentle, and bittersweet. 

__

_Sorry, anija._ Hanzo squeezed his eyes shut. Something told him that it would be the last he would feel of Genji in the drift for quite some time, yet strangely, the thought didn’t bring with it the expected pain. _I’d love to spend a little more time with you, but I’m afraid I’m late to a previous engagement._

Exhaustion swept over him as he wondered at the sudden ache of absence in his heart. Ever since Genji’s death, he had never been alone, and yet, even now, that truth still stood. He glanced down at his hand to find it wasn’t empty, but instead enveloped in the loose grip of a tan and calloused palm. Reflexively, his fingers tightened around those of his copilot, partner, and friend, who promptly returned the pressure. Neither of them commented on the streaks running down his cheeks, instead opting to wait in a silence of quiet comfort and understanding until the helicopters arrived to take them home.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say, have you ever heard of Neon Genesis Evangelion?
> 
> I've decided to affectionately call this OverRim, and the other au, Pacific Watch.


	40. moving forwards with your head held high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed that whenever Genji disappeared to gain some perspective, there was always someone coming after him.

Spring rolled through that year with an uncommonly hot day, followed by a rain storm that started in the afternoon and lasted well into the night. 

Perched atop an outcropping, staring out over the curved edge of the forest covering the mountain’s slope, and the wisps of fog that laid like across the rippling sea like a down quilt, was a figure dimly illumed in electric green. Droplets pattered against his pale armor, running down his visor in streaks. He tilted his head to the clouds, imagining the air’s humid touch, the heat, the smell of soil and wet grass. While he’d never paid enough attention to such sensations to form an opinion either way on them in his youth, there was a time when he would have given much to regain them. 

Even now, the yearning had not entirely abated, though its intensity had dulled. 

Slowly, the mechanisms that controlled the rise and fall of his vents turned, expelling impurities and excess carbon dioxide in a pillar of steam that dissipated shortly after its release.

He’d been crouching in the drizzle for some time when a girl poked her head curiously out of a nearby window, blinked sleepily at him, then clambered out in her black-and-pink nightgown to join him. “What are you doing, Miss Song?” In the middle of lifting her second leg over the ledge as she hefted herself up, she paused to narrow her eyes, a frown pulling at the edges of her mouth that only grew when a heavy stream of rainwater fell from the roof to drench her bangs. “It is dangerous to...” He trailed off as a second thought took precedence over the first. “Did you just climb out of my room?”

Tossing her wet hair back with an impatient flick of her wrist, she completed the climb with a scoffed, “Please, I’ve done more dangerous stunts on stream.” Then slyly added while she got her bearings, “Besides, you’d catch me if I fell, right?” After pausing for a disconcerting amount of time, all the while with that inhuman stillness he’d perfected, Genji opted for a half-hearted shrug. Gripping the outcropping a little tighter, Hana swung her feet, making the bunny slippers she wore blur with the motion. “That’s not very comforting.” 

She made no move to leave, though, and Genji didn’t ask her to. 

“Anyway,” she said after almost a minute had passed, “what’s it that’s got you up here like glowy gargoyle?” Though Genji’s mask stared at her without any readable expression, she imagined from a catch of breath she thought she heard that he was stunned. There was a crackle of static, shortly followed by his tense posture relaxing slightly, his shoulders sinking. 

“My brother’s here.”

It’s the way he says it, flat and toneless, that convinces her what she’d already known – that climbing out of a window in the middle of the night in her pajamas and pink bunny slippers had been the only sensible choice to make. 

She scowled at the lawn several floors below them, doing her best to ignore her the uncomfortable cling of her pajamas as the rain soaked into the fabric. “And you decided that the best way to deal with that was to climb out here and brood?”

“That is – I am _not_ brooding.”

“Oh?” She leaned back until her hair nearly brushed against the concrete, a cheeky smile on her face. “Then what are you doing?”

“Thinking,” the cyborg replied immediately. He shifted awkwardly before correcting himself with a wary sigh of defeat, “Brooding.” 

Kicking her legs, Hana laughed, though it was admittedly subdued when compared to her usual fare. Eventually, the humor faded, allowing her to naturally change to a more thoughtful expression. She tilted her head, looking him over, taking in the joints between his digits where his hands rested. Those were made of bone and muscle, once. Just like hers. “It’s okay not to be okay, you know.” Genji turned to look at her, the movement avian in its speed and fluidity. She didn’t seem to mind, “No one ever really tells you that.” 

Finally, unable to resist, she glanced side-eye at him, taking in the increasing brightness, the subtle pulse that synced to his heartbeat, “Me and Lucio aren’t exactly in the know around here. Not yet, at least. Do you…” Briefly, she worried her lip, but plunged ahead, “Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened between you and your brother?”

The visor remained fixed on her, concealing everything beneath it. Even his presence was muted. Hana was fairly certain that if she closed her eyes, he could vanish into the night and she wouldn't register the absence. A rough inhale stalled her musings, and on its heels a quietly strained, “I’d prefer not to, if that’s alright with you, Miss Song. Our history is a complicated one.” 

Hana nodded. “No prying. Got it. It’s just… I want to help you, Genji.” A frustrated groan escaped her as she plopped her chin on her knees. “But I don’t know how I can if I don’t know the whole story.” Part of why she and her MEKA squad had worked so well was their commonalities. Different upbringings and nationalities, yes, but similar interests and attitudes. Fighting omnics in the mechs was like a new and exciting game – a game they, as the world’s greatest players, were naturally going to win – until it stopped being a game. That was when their bond went from strong to unbreakable. 

Was it so wrong to want a semblance of that cohesion and closeness with her new team, as well? 

“I’m just going to talk to myself for a second, okay?” Without waiting for a response, she started, “Forgiving people who’ve hurt us, especially people we love… well, it’s not really black and white. In any case, you’re making the effort, and even if it feels like you’re going backwards sometimes” – there was the reaction she was counting on - "so is he.” Leaning to close the gap a little, she added earnestly, “I mean, he’s here, right?” And, slowly, Genji inclined his head. 

Satisfied for the moment, Hana leaned back, watching as the grey clouds above stretched to a thinness that could no longer hide the stars shining brightly behind them. “For me, at least, it doesn’t matter how you get there, or how long it takes. What's important is taking more steps forward than you take back.” Grinning, she looked over her shoulder to see that she still held the cyborg’s attention. “How’s that? Did I sound super sage-like?”

No response. It was starting to make her nervous, actually. Then a cool wind blew through her drenched pj’s, leading to a shiver she couldn’t quite suppress. Abruptly, Genji jumped to his feet. “It’s getting late. Let’s head inside.” 

Relieved, Hana fired back, “Finally! I was starting to think I’d start growing mold out here.” 

When she was climbing to her feet – Genji didn’t offer to help, though she guessed it was because he knew she would want to do it on her on – the cyborg tentatively offered to make her some hot chocolate. 

Hana pumped a fist, already well on her way to squeezing through the open window, “Sweet!” 

Folding his arms over his chest, Genji cocked his head to the side, observing her reaction with amusement.

“Well, yes. Unless you’d prefer it bitter?” She stuck her tongue out at him before ducking inside, causing him to chuckle. 

Once she’d changed out of her wet clothes and into a pair of grey sweatpants and a striped crop-top, D.Va met him in the kitchen, where a pair of mugs filled with chocolaty foam brimming over the edges made her whoop with delight. Remembering that it was past midnight and most of their fellow agents were asleep, she quickly clapped a palm over her mouth. The first cup was placed in front of her at the table - where she impatiently waited for it to cool before taking her first gulp and searing her tongue, anyway – while the second was placed in the microwave. 

She frowned at Genji when he joined her, the space in front of him clearly empty, folded hands and palpable smugness besides. “Aren’t you going to drink yours?”

He shook his head. “It’s not for me.”

Initially, she didn’t understand, but upon thinking it over, simply replied with a nod, after which she took to sipping more slowly from her mug to conceal a smile threatening to climb too high to hide. 

In the morning, she snuck a peek in the kitchen to find the microwave empty, with the mug now washed and drying on the rack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this thought while writing that Jesse definitely did the Climb-and-Talk with Genji in Blackwatch, so imagine that he slips, and Genji's still adjusting to his prosthetics so he doesn't move quite fast enough to catch him. Jesse lands on his feet, makes a big show of walking it off, "Look, see, I'm fine. No harm done." Then proceeds to manfully make his way to the clinic on a broken foot. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who reads and leaves feedback on this series. I know I don't always reply, but I read every comment and they never fail to make me smile.


	41. Sunlight Through The Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's great that Genji's showing some maturity by offering to babysit. What's not so great is he's roped Hanzo into helping him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Komorebi – the dappled effect of sunlight shining through leaves_

The hangover, when it comes, begins with an insidious headache radiating from his temples. It’s bearable now, but certainly bodes ill for the near future, as such small aches tend to exacerbate over the course of the day. Luckily for him, however, training had been canceled that day, as a short text on his phone informed him shortly after its unlocking. 

It was such a relieve to be given a grace period that he chose not to question it for the moment, and simply allowed himself to exist within the soft fabric of his futon, observed by none besides the crescent-shaped patches of sunlight swimming through the shadows on his ceiling, blending and splitting as the branches of the _sakura_ planted in the garden outside his room swayed in the cool morning breeze. 

Distantly, it became apparent to the heir that spring had arrived in Hanamura. He’d spent so much time indoors and occupied as of late that he’d failed to notice. 

Sinking deeper into his pillows, Hanzo entertained the thought of staying in the entire day. Most of those who would demand his presence were likely still recovering from overindulgence at the previous night’s meeting between the clan heads, which was treated with the utmost reverence, despite it usually amounting to little more than a reunion between colleagues and old friends. Once, Hanzo had prided himself on his tolerance and control, but drinking with his father’s peers had quickly disillusioned him of that notion. As always, there was still much for him to learn if he was ever going to take his place, someday. 

Groaning against the path his own thoughts had taken, Hanzo screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep once more. 

In truth, he should have known better than to believe that the universe would ever allow him rest. Shortly after, his door swung open with a force which slammed its knob against the wall, “ _Ohayo!_ ” and a weight landed on his stomach, digging a knee beneath his ribs that drove the breath from his lungs in the form of an agonized wheeze. 

Recovering from the blow, Hanzo willed himself not to attack the assailant, because that poisonous shade of green could only belong to the most troublesome delinquent in Japan, who also happened to be his younger brother. He was dressed in a black t-shirt, as well as a horrid pair of white pajama shorts with spaceship print. His spikes weren’t styled yet, causing them to droop sadly over his forehead. 

Genji's eyes widened briefly, flickering with what might have been the stirrings of an apology, before a sly smile curled his lips. He leaned closer, his breath smelling stale, but thankfully free of alcohol. “You look like you had fun last night.” 

Grunting, Hanzo shoved him off the futon, making him collapse on his rear on the wood floorboards. Seemingly unfazed, Genji bounced back instantly, reappearing above him before Hanzo could so much as sit up. “Come on!” He whined, wheedling the way he always did when he was about to get what he wanted. “We promised Akemi we’d babysit today.” 

Momentarily stalled in his attempts to free himself, Hanzo blinked, frowning, “I have no recollection of this.” 

Averting his gaze, Genji at least had the decency to look sheepish. “So, I maaay have promised on your behalf.” He braced, expecting Hanzo to react poorly, but when next he glanced down at him, his older brother just looked… tired. 

“Fine.” Hanzo rubbed the bridge of his nose, before dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “Get out so I can get dressed.” And just like that, Genji dismounted and left, though he thanked him profusely on his way out the door. 

Hanzo remained still for a time after he was gone, staring without seeing at where he had been. In the end, though he searched for it, the desire to leave his room remained elusive. Even so, he dragged himself out of bed to swallow a few aspirins, then reached into his closet to pull out a blue fish-scaled yukata, a haori with golden clouds along the collar, and a pair of wooden sandals. As unwilling to face the day as ever yet resolved to do so, regardless.

 

Akemi, though a Shimada by blood, did not live in the main house, nor did she live in the communities reserved for cousins and distant relations. See, she was born from the union of a man who bore their name, and a woman he loved, who did not. By courting this woman of little known birth, her father had defied the elders, which ended poorly for him when his chosen bride-to-be took ill, but not before leaving him with a child, a young girl and no home to raise her in. 

In the end, he was forced to return to the clan, and seeing as the elders value Shimada bloodlines above all, they allowed it, even providing Akemi with a home, a nanny, and a job in the kitchens when she was old enough. The kumicho took enough of a liking to her to make her an unofficial caretaker for his own children, but could do nothing about the mandate preventing her from ever seeing her father again, since thus was the price of his return.

Shortly before the start of her thirtieth year, news came to her of her father’s marriage to a woman from a respected clan, and several months after that, a baby was brought to her home for her to raise, and it was that child, her younger half-sister, that Genji had sworn to look after for the day.

By the time the brothers had completed their hike along the stone and pebble path leading to the traditional 2-level house secluded in the woods, Genji was already regretting the existence of his mouth and any sound it had ever issued during his lifetime. This was all quickly forgotten, however, when a head of shoulder-length pearlescent black hair poked out from behind the sliding shoji screen door. The child regarded them warily, caution warring with curiosity. 

Taking in her reaction to them, Genji didn’t address her immediately. Instead, he gently traced one of the colorful paper animals glued to the screen, praising the artistry of the craft while the tip of a finger followed the arch of a purple giraffe’s neck. Hanzo watched as he continued to coo over the animals, even letting out a tiny shriek of joy upon finding a bird that matched his hair. A quiet giggle interrupted his animated gushing, and he turned with a kind smile to see the girl standing on the porch, no longer afraid. 

For a time, she proudly showed him her zoo, while Genji listened with rapt attention and Hanzo remained a polite distance away. He had no desire to scare her, and frankly didn’t know how to handle children at this age. They were curious, playful, and such terribly impressionable creatures. Needless to say, there was a reason he would have never volunteered to care for them by his own volition, not the least of which being an irrational certainty that anything innocent within his vicinity would be tainted by the encounter. 

Some mistook his avoidance of children for distaste, when in truth it was quite the opposite. And seeing the way Yui often glanced shyly over her shoulder to look at him, only to quickly turn around when he noticed her staring, made him wonder if he hadn’t already managed to frighten the poor girl.

Forget what Genji said, this was a mistake. He was going home. 

Just when he’d made up his mind, the shoji doors swung open to reveal Akemi looking harried in a business suit. Usually, she tended to prefer the barest essentials when it came to make-up, but today she’d clearly opted for a more professional look, as her lips shone a startling red, putting them in contrast with the smoky shadow and highlights framing her dark eyes and sculpted brows. In truth, Hanzo hardly recognized her. 

She rushed out, gripping Genji by his hands while she thanked him for watching Yui on such short notice. He laughed breezily, waving off the display with that effortless charm which came so easily to him, and Akemi relaxed, her muscles visibly loosening as she let him go with a soft smile. “But, truly, it is so good to see you again, Genji.” 

“And it’s not just me, either. Guess who I got to come with?” Shifting towards the lawn, Genji gestured with his head, outing Hanzo, who waved awkwardly the instant Akemi registered his presence. 

She clapped her hands to her cheeks, a certain wetness appearing in her gaze. Then, forgoing the steps, she leapt from the porch in her heels, nearly giving Hanzo his first heart attack. He was already heading towards her to steady her when she leapt into his arms, wrapping him an embrace that told him of the wonders working in the kitchen had done for her limb strength. “It is good to see you, too, Akemi-nee,” he managed with what little air remained in his lungs. 

“It’s been years since you came to my house, Hanzo!” She laughed. “I was starting to worry you had forgotten the way.”

“I will visit more often in the future. I promise.”

There was something more to it than that, however. While he doubted Genji had noticed anything amiss, now that she was upclose, signs of sleepless nights, hidden competently by concealer but not from him, became visible. Lowly, so that the others would not overhear, Hanzo asked, “What’s wrong?” 

Akemi’s eyes widened briefly. She was facing away from the pair still. Even so, her mouth barely moved, “They’re trying to take her away from me, Hanzo.” Her grip on his arms tightened, the pressure becoming uncomfortable, though he refused to allow anything in his expression to give that away. There was no need to ask who ‘they’ were. The elders had always valued children born from approved marriages, and seemed to prefer keeping them close, as there were many lodgings located near and within the main house for those deemed worthy to carry the Shimada name. 

Hanzo frowned, speaking quickly,“You know father and I would never let that happen.” 

Despite his assurance, the smile Akemi wore no longer reached her eyes. She gently placed a palm on his cheek, conveying something silently that passed beyond his understanding, before pulling away, becoming chipper once more as she returned to the porch to gather her baby sister's squirming figure up in her arms and kiss her many times on the head, before finally, reluctantly passing her off to Genji when the taxi arrived to take her to the castle. 

Meanwhile, Hanzo rolled over a curious question in his mind. 

If someone offered him a cool glass of water, but before letting him drink, warned that it might be the last of his life, would he gulp it down, refuse it, or savor it for as long as he could in the hope that the memory of its presence might ease the reality of its absence?

 

Hanzo joined his brother on the porch where Yui stood forlornly gazing after the vehicle carrying her sister. There was no way she could understand what was happening, yet it was abundantly clear that the girl’s previous playfulness had waned. Genji rubbed his neck, muttering something about melancholy kids. When he took a step forward, Yui moved to maintain the distance, only to catch her sandals on the wood grain and trip, landing on her rear with a dazed expression. 

Genji leapt on the opportunity. Appearing before her on his knees, he wailed, “Whatever are we going to do, Hanzo?” Nonplussed, Yui blinked at him, apparently searching for answers that Hanzo didn’t have. “This angel’s fallen from the sky!”

Silence stretched until at last Genji prompted him with a pointed look. Flicking his gaze briefly towards the sky, Hanzo mulled it over. “Get a ladder?”

For a second, Genji couldn’t speak. “…What?”

“A really big ladder?” He tried again.

Genji let his hands fall to his sides, shaking his head. “Man, what’s wrong with you?”

Meanwhile, Yui had grown bored and hefted herself to her feet, then toddled to the screen doors, where she opened them without any assistance, and shut them behind her. The brothers stared after her, unsure of how to feel. Finally, Genji sighed, “Was our hair ever that nice?”

Biting back a smirk, Hanzo reached to help him up, since he was still kneeling on the floorboards. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, little brother, but mine still is.”

Genji stuck his tongue out. 

Once they were settled indoors, which was simply furnished with muted colors such a grays and blues, but by no means sparse, Yui pulled her favorite movie out of a large stack, pushed it into the DVD player, then patiently sat on the rug while she waited for the film to start. It was then that Hanzo finally realized what it was about the child that had so disconcerted him before – she was far too accustomed to being left to her own devices. 

Genji sat down beside her, his knees tucked to his chest, and just like before, she moved towards him at her own pace, until eventually she curled up beside him, mimicking his posture by drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around them.

The movie, for what it was worth, was a Western animation from the age of early CGI, an adaptation of a famous ballet. The humans in pictures at that time tended to carry a certain deadness to the gaze, a disjointedness of movement that thrust them into the uncanny, which was likely why toys were so often the stars at the beginning. Hanzo watched from behind the couch as the lead, a young woman dressed in a pink nightgown, journeyed across a magical land with a talking nutcracker for a company. They were both so invested in the tale that when Hanzo ventured to ask if they wanted something to drink, they twisted around to shush him in sync. 

Annoyed that he was, in fact, the only actual adult in the house, he searched for the kitchen to make some hot chocolate, since he’d seen his brother do it dozens of times before and was fairly certain he could manage that much on his own, at least. 

The kitchen was plain, with a tile floor and the most basic of dun-colored counters, with several cabinets and drawers to keep the utensils, and a rice cooker in the corner. It became a matter of process of elimination for the heir to find the necessary mugs, as well as a plastic cup that looked like it could be microwaved. Milk was always kept in the refrigerator, so that presented no issue. In spite of that, he felt a sense of pride once all the ingredients were assembled. First, he poured generous helpings of the cocoa into the cups, keeping an ear out for any signs of distress from the living room - though it seemed that Genji had things under control for once – followed by milk, which he stirred until foam bubbles appeared on the surface of each beverage.

The last thing he did was place each in the microwave, turn the dial up to high, and wait for the water to warm.

What he did not expect was the near immediate light show which took place. 

Stepping back, Hanzo stared in horror as the appliance began to crackle and hiss, its vents emitting an acrid smoke as lightning arced within it, melting and burning the interior walls. Quickly, he reached behind the microwave, ignoring a spark that singed his sleeve, to yank the plug from the wall, hoping that would be the end of it. For a moment, it seemed as though it was. Then yellow flames appeared to lick its sides, multiplying and growing until they completely enveloped the appliance. At the door, a cry rang out, followed by a blur when Genji rushed in with a fire extinguisher to smother the fire, accidentally hitting his brother, as well. 

When it was out, they stood together in the kitchen, heaving from the panic. A glance passed between them, the tension in their shoulders eased…

And the fire alarm went off, startling both of them. Yui tore into the room, ignoring Genji’s protests that it wasn’t safe yet to throw herself at their waists where they could feel her shaking. 

With a helpless shrug, Genji aimed the fire extinguisher’s nozzle at the alarm, sprayed it, and in the blissful silence that followed, he and Hanzo gathered the quivering girl into a hug, which lasted until the tremors passed and sometime after that. 

The whole ordeal tired Yui out, but when Akemi returned, it was to find the brothers sharing a pizza with her at the table, as well as a new microwave on her counter that they’d apparently reached some sort of solidarity over, because not a single one of them cared to explain what happened to the first.

 

Nearly a decade later, Hanzo would kneel on the floor of a shrine with a ceremonial wakizashi, and in a frenzy, slice off his meticulously groomed hair into choppy, uneven strands, before disappearing from the clan like a phantom, a man already dead. 

They sent men after him, and women. People he didn’t know and those he did, cousins, aunts, and uncles he could recall meeting only a handful of times in his life. The dragons consumed them all. If they knew of his secret wish, then it was plain to him that they cared nothing for his will, as they continued to sink their teeth and claws into the family come to kill him. 

Once, he thought he’d heard a familiar voice call out to him, one he hadn’t heard in ages, “Hanzo-niisan!” before the dragons erupted from his limb, scorching the earth with their fury, and the landscape, once swathed with assassins, vanished beneath a deluge of raging blue fire. 

All he knew for certain was that for as long as he lived, he would never see Yui again.


	42. In Too Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lake lying deep in Hanamura forest, sleeping under ice and snow.

It had snowed through the night. 

Upon waking with sleeves of goosebumps casing his arms, Genji raced to the windows, ignoring the chill when he pressed his nose against the frosted window to gape at the unbroken expanse of white draped over the gardens and courtyard. 

Roused by the movement, Hanzo rose shortly after from his futon on the other side of the room, rubbing his arm over his heavy lids with a stifled yawn. Strands of hair stuck up in odd places, mussed by his pillow, he glanced over his shoulder, waiting for his vision to focus, though he didn’t have to wait to know his little brother was both awake and vibrating with excitment. “Genji,” Hanzo started, putting as much irritation and exhaustion into the name as a ten-year-old could, “why are you awake?”

“It’s snowing, _nii-san_!” Which served for as good a sign as any that he was not going back to sleep anytime soon. Sighing, Hanzo took in the pale pajama gown Genji wore, along with his bare feet. 

Though still sluggish, he pried his sheets from his legs, exposing them to the cool air. A scowl pulled at his lips when his toes touched the floorboards. 

Genji was looking at him with anticipation now, his eyes gleaming. Hanzo nodded towards his closet. “Get out your coat. I’ll help you put it on.” Pulling himself from the window with a loud _pop_ as his cheek separated from the pane, Genji fixed him with a thousand-watt beam before leaping over his own futon to tear into his closet with fervor. Frowning, Hanzo attempted to thread his fingers through the hair resting against his mid-back, and was unsurprised to find them caught in snares and tangles. Thus, the question became whether to try Genji’s scarce amount of patience through a show of willful independence, or call for one of the cleaning maids to hasten the brushing process, the latter of which would be markedly less painful.

He mulled it over, and by the time Genji’s puffy winter coat, pants, scarf, and gloves were all laid out in crumpled piles atop his sheets, had decided that it would be worth taking advantage of their assistance, so long as he made it clear to any who asked that he was not partaking in childish games himself, but rather supervising his younger brother, who had no one his own age to play with within the castle, and whose father was much too busy to entertain him. And if Genji decided to involve him in his fun, well, what was Hanzo supposed to do? Ignore him? 

As he sidestepped Genji to fetch an extra thick yukata and haori from his drawers, Hanzo ruefully shook his head, his mouth quirking up at the corners ever so slightly while his little brother struggled to squirm into his coat, looking for the world like a flailing plump caterpillar. “ _Tasukete_!” came a muffled cry from within. “I’m stuck!”

Not even the dragon Hanzo was sure to inherit someday would be enough for an endeavor so daunting. 

It took some doing – “Genji, would you be still?” – but they managed to get him suitably prepared for the cold weather, or that was what Hanzo believed, until the cleaning maids took one look at Genji, marched him back to their room when he tried to escape, and proceeded to swathe the weakly protesting child into layers of coats and scarves that restricted his movements to the point where he could barely walk without tipping forwards or falling flat on his back. Of course, Hanzo thanked the well-meaning women with a polite bow, having already resolved to discard the excess weight behind a bush the instant they were out of sight. 

This did not prevent him, however, from having a bit of fun at his little brother’s expanse when he waddled out of the room with his cheeks flushed and inflated in what was unmistakably a pout. 

Quickly, Hanzo ducked his head to hide a smile. The gesture did not go unnoticed, however, as it was met with a sullen glare, the likes of which could only ever truly belong on a face still round with a baby-like chubbiness, and Hanzo turned, unable to contain a quiet huff of laughter from escaping after enduring the likes of such a pitiful sight. He shortened his strides when he strode across the foyer to leave to allow Genji to keep pace with him, though he stubbornly hung back, still sulking, until Hanzo braced himself against the carved wooden doors and pushed with the full force of his weight behind it. Genji watched, fascinated, when a gap appeared which allowed a brisk wind to enter, causing the servants to grumble. When it was large enough, Hanzo reached back, impatient – “Come on!” – and yanked him through the opening, allowing the door to slam shut behind them while the wooden teeth of their _geta_ sank into the fresh snow on the carved staircase. 

It dusted the curled rooftops and tiles of their home like powdered sugar, sticking to scarlet columns and coating every inch of the courtyard’s grass and cobblestones. Tilting his head towards the grey sky, Hanzo breathed in the cool air, allowing traces of crystalline flakes still swirling in the breeze to cling to his cheeks and lashes. The chill was a welcome sensation after having spent so much time indoors. 

Genji watched him silently, curious as to why his brother was acting so strangely. It was enough that he didn’t immediately pull away when Hanzo’s grip on his hand unconsciously loosened, but a child’s attention is such a fickle thing. Soon, he was shifting restlessly, as eager to leave as he was reluctant to leave alone. “Hanzo, can we go please? You can do whatever-this-is whenever you want later.” A single lid parted enough to reveal a dark, inscrutable sliver, with which Hanzo regarded him coolly. Before Genji could even begin to process this new and unexpected coldness, Hanzo gave his head a hard shake. Without replying, he started down the stairs at a brisk pace, only pausing once he realized Genji was struggling to keep up. Glancing over his shoulder, the boy watched his little brother stumble after him for a moment before commenting, “Are we taking our time, then? And you led me to believe we were in a hurry.”

Upon reaching the bottom step he’d chosen to wait on, Genji rocked a bit forward, having decided mid-stride not to stop, then stubbornly shuffled ahead. His gaze trained on his back, Hanzo lengthened his gait slightly to catch up, though this only caused Genji to attempt to quicken his pace. Encumbered as he was, he tripped over his own feet, falling face-first in the snow. A muffled scream could be heard as the boy flailed his limbs like a turtle turned on its shell.

Hanzo sighed at the absurdity, already kneeling down to help, “Alright, calm down.” He slipped his fingers beneath his side, then lifted with his legs, flipping him over. Stunned, Genji blinked up at him with frost on his lashes and clumps of snow on his cheeks and forehead. Hanzo knew he’d recovered when their father’s frown curved his lips. 

While surreptitiously looking around, Hanzo clasped Genji by the arms to lug him to his feet, and eventually settled on a pavilion in the center of the courtyard, since they couldn’t very well hide extraneous winter clothes in the dragon shrine. Ojizou-sama likely wouldn’t mind if they borrowed his shrine as long as they asked - he was known to have a soft spot for the children under his protection – but the closest shrine was along the mountain trail, close to the village bus stop, and by the time they reached it, the sun would have crossed the sky and dropped below the horizon. 

Without uttering a word of his plan, Hanzo guided Genji to the pavilion with the stone bench inside. Bewildered, Genji glanced over his shoulder, a protest ready on his tongue. Hanzo shushed him with a stern look, before miming stripping off the outer layer of his yukata. 

Genji’s eyes widened in understanding. In spite of that, he didn’t move. Dropping his head, he muttered to his shoes, “You won’t tell?” 

Ignoring a burst of sourness on his mouth, Hanzo slowly shook his head. “You can take off your thickest coat and two scarves, okay? And you have to remember to put them back on before we go back inside.” Genji nodded eagerly, already reaching for his buttons. Lunging forward, Hanzo gripped his wrists, at the same time positioning himself to obscure Genji from anyone who might have been peering through the windows. “Not out here!” he hissed. “Wait until you’re out of sight, _boke_.” And he finished with a shove, pushing Genji within and under the pavilion’s cover. 

Though he grumbled while changing, it wasn’t much longer before he was shunting the colorful garments beneath the stone bench, and when he was done, Hanzo knew hiding his excitement was a losing battle. The corners of his mouth ticked up at the sides, Hanzo gestured for Genji to follow, then moved across the courtyard and towards the entrance gates at a pace which left little doubt as to how much he wanted to run. 

He turned sharply when they reached the tiled path, keeping close to the wall until they happened upon a lower section that still rose above the pair of them, and followed it to the nearest corner. Bending his knees, Hanzo held out his palms for Genji to step on, hefted him onto the wall then, instead of replying to Genji’s panicked, “What about you?” strode purposefully to the corner part, where he jumped to one side, pushed off it to elevate himself, shoved off the other side with the tooth of his sandal, and gracefully stepped atop the wall, where he stood at full height, having never once touched the stone with his hands. 

Nearby, Genji instantly scrambled to his feet, though he needn’t have bothered, for Hanzo dropped off the wall to land crouched within the snow bank on the other side. Shivering slightly, he stood to catch Genji, except Genji ignored his outstretched arms, choosing instead to land in a tangled heap beside him. He sprang up, sputtering and spitting out snow.

Concerned and a little unsure, Hanzo tentatively asked if he was okay, but Genji chose to ignore both his words and his offer to help him up, instead working laboriously at getting his feet under him until eventually he enjoyed the small triumph of rising on his own. He looked up at Hanzo with flushed cheeks, his chest swelling with pride. 

Feeling generous, Hanzo gave his spiky brown hair a fond pat. “Well done, pinecone-head.” Ignoring Genji’s rapid-fire protests, he turned to focus on the treeline, and the dirt trail he knew would be found but a short distance past it. Already moving down the shifting snow bank, Hanzo called, “Follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”

Genji was already stumbling after him, kicking up clouds of white as he attempted to mimic his older brother’s fluid motion and mostly failed.

It got easier once they discovered the path. It was sprinkled where everything else seemed to be swallowed, as the boughs of the forest’s old trees had caught most of the snow, making the last leg of their journey much easier by comparison. 

Even so, Genji stuck close to Hanzo’s side, wary of the shadows collecting at the base of thick trunks, the crack of dried leaves from the footsteps of a creature just out of sight. What he didn’t expect were the three little houses built upon a stone slab, each with a small pair of wooden doors. Curious, he reached for one, intending to look inside, but Hanzo gripped his wrist before he could. Urgently shaking his head, Hanzo explained that the houses were _hokora_ , shrines for minor forest gods, and disturbing them, even unintentionally, would only upset them. 

He bowed low to the shrines, his long hair falling to frame his profile as he prayed for their understanding and guidance, and beckoned for Genji to follow suit. For a time after, Genji would imagine what the gods within the shrines looked like, often picturing tiny people that would shout complaints endlessly at anyone rude enough to intrude on their privacy. 

As much fun it was to spend time with his brother outside the castle, however, the constant cold soon became difficult for him to bear. “How much longer before we get there, _nii-san_?” A part of him he wasn’t very proud of now longed for the extra coat and scarves hidden in the courtyard. 

He was ignored, anyway. Hanzo seemed to be searching for something, but it wasn’t until a snow-viewing lantern came into view that unexpected warmth softened his expression. “This is it.” He brushed off a chunk of snow from its domed roof, then stepped through a flexible and easily parted curtain of new pine growth to stand in a clearing so beautiful Genji clapped his hands to his mouth with a gasp. A frozen lake spread from the center, black and reflective as obsidian and covered in frost. 

As they explored, Hanzo proudly gave Genji a small tour of the garden, starting with the bridge where he’d once thrown bread to the fishes in the spring. 

“Where did the fishes go?” Genji asked as he peered over the railing to see his own curious image staring back at him. 

Hanzo joined him. “To the bottom of the pond where it’s warm.” 

“Won’t they drown?”

“Fish can’t drown, Genji.” He replied, doing his best not to roll his eyes. 

Rolling onto his back, Genji curved around the stone pressing against it, looking much like a bridge himself as he stared up at the empty gray sky. “What about the birds? They can’t be with the fish, right? Where did they go?”

“Worried about your flock, little sparrow?” Hanzo teased, but when Genji didn’t reply, he shrugged, “The birds fly to where it’s warmer for the winter. You’ll see them again in a few months.” He didn’t think he’d asked so many silly questions on his first visit to the garden, but then, maybe she would have been happier if he had. 

Settling down, he closed his eyes, suddenly overcome by a wash of longing. He wished she was here. With her, the garden had seemed so magical and wondrous, as she spun tales of cucumber-lovers that lived in the lake, and winged sprites that could trick the unwary out of their names if they weren’t careful. He wished Genji had been old enough to remember her when she passed, since that would mean the responsibility of remembering would no longer fall solely on his shoulders, but happy endings existed only in stories, and sometimes not even there.

The kappa was known to drown its victims, after all. 

A startled whoop dragged him from his thoughts, and he shot up with a jolt, his eyelids springing open as he struggled past a second of disorientation before his brain registered the absence of his little brother. Gripping the railing, he bent over it to see Genji standing in the center of the lake’s black expanse in nothing but his socks. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he slid several feet, before twirling around with a flair to repeat the motion. He didn’t see the startlingly white cracks spreading from his feet like fissures in a starless midnight sky. “Genji! Stop moving!”

Not pausing to see if Genji had heard, Hanzo dashed down the bridge to the bank, where he started ripping off his sandals and stripping off layers of yukata. “Hanzo?” He looked up to see the blood had drained from Genji’s face. A resounding crack killed whatever Hanzo might have said. His mouth felt run dry, his heart pound against his ribs. 

What to do? What should he do? Did he run for help? What if Genji fell in while he was gone? He would die, and Hanzo would only have himself to blame.

Did he walk over to him? What if they both fell in? Who would save them, then? 

No one. Because he hadn’t told anyone where they were going. Because he’d broken the rules. 

And Genji was going to pay for his mistake.

After a hard swallow, he managed to say, “Don’t worry, Genji. Everything will be fine.” Relief poured through his little brother’s expression. “Just walk to me. Slowly.”

He slid down to the very edge of the lake, even stepping as far onto the ice as he dared in the hope that he could bring the amount of time Genji was forced to spent on the lake's fragile frozen surface to its absolute minimum. Following his instructions, Genji slowly lifted a leg. Too slowly. 

His weight shifted to one leg, one spot. In a moment of surreal clarity, the lake’s dark waters seemed to rise around him like a pair of slender-fingered hands, and when the hands fell back to the now rippling waters, he was gone, with nothing but bubbles at the surface to suggest he’d ever been.

“Genji?” Hanzo was already moving. He dropped down to his stomach, distributing his weight as evenly as he could, and crawled to the rapidly vanishing hole. The ice wanted to pretend like nothing had occurred, like it hadn’t just been broken and punctured, but there was still cracks, still gaps. 

Like shattering glass, the taut surface split once more, and Genji’s head appeared, his mouth wide as he gasped for breath. 

Halfway there, Hanzo shouted to him, “Stay calm! I’m coming to get you.”

A quiet, frightened whimper that vaguely resembled his name traveled back to him, muffled through a mouth filling with water as Genji struggled to tread. His head kept bobbing, dropping beneath the water, and he came up sputtering, coughing. 

“I’m coming, Genji.” Hanzo said again, as he placed one elbow in front of the other and pulled his weight, as he pushed with his feet, even sliding in his haste. He was so close. Just a little more and he could grab him. “Try to slow your breathing, okay? Focus on keeping your head up.” Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like Genji could hear him. He fumbled weakly for the ice, crying out softly whenever it gave under his numb and grasping fingers. 

Genji’s head dipped beneath the surface. Hanzo screamed his name. 

Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity. The water remained unbroken.

Until, in an instant, it had swallowed another. 

Hanzo gasped when the lake engulfed him, flooding his sense with – _cold, cold, cold_. His muscles seized, his lungs begged for air, yet he fought against the urge to gasp, knowing that breathing in the frigid lake water would doom them both. He forced his eyes open, initially taking in the murkiness with a thrill of despair, before noticing a patch of emerald green and vibrant orange amongst the gloom. He swam for it, pumping his rigid arms and legs as best he could in what his body shrieked was the wrong direction. Desperately, he latched onto the colors to feel something solid, and unbearably heavy. 

Screaming with frustration and fear, Hanzo ripped and tore at the garments dragging him down, clawing at the scarf until it loosened and floated away before working on the coat. There were two, one filled with down feathers and another, thinner one made of polyester and an experimental fabric created to be lightweight and insulating. Only the first needed to go, except Hanzo couldn’t find the zipper, and they were running out of time. Genji had already been in the water too long.

A flicker of motion in the water caught his eye. Something that glinted like claws dragged against Genji’s coat, tearing it down the middle. Without hesitating, Hanzo shucked it off of him, curled a securing arm around his chest, and made for the wound in the ice he’d reopened when he’d dived, except it wasn’t there. Briefly, he panicked, the pressure of his need for oxygen building to a painful degree in his chest, but the current in the water shifted, pulling them further towards the lake's center, and Hanzo realized that they’d drifted. Now, he could see a section that was brighter than the rest, and he pumped his legs, reaching for the weakened ice with his free hand. 

It slammed against the barrier, followed by his head as he continued to kick furiously. For an instant, it felt as though the lake itself were rejecting them, as the current swirled around their forms and pushed, and that, combined with the efforts of an impossible pair of scaled hands bracing against his feet, gave Hanzo the strength he needed to break through. 

The ice closest was too weak to hold them, but thicker further from the center. Eventually, it stopped breaking when Hanzo reached for it, allowing him to heft Genji and himself on its surface with an exhausted groan. Turning on his side, he coughed up water until his lungs hurt before turning to check on his brother. That's when it finally sank through that Genji hadn’t once moved since he’d found him. 

With a sinking heart, Hanzo saw the reason – not only was he still, his face had turned a terrifying shade of blue. Frightened, Hanzo gingerly cupped his face. “Genji? Wake up.” He gave his cheek a soft pat, trying to coax him into consciousness, and when that didn’t work, he gave in to instinct, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him so hard his head lolled to the side. 

Miraculously, Genji's eyelids fluttered. 

And he immediately vomited up a torrent of lake water. Once he'd expelled the last of it, he promptly desolved into terrified tears, and Hanzo wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him tightly through the shivers wracking his body. He knew he had to warm Genji somehow, so he forced him to stand, though doing so gave volume and violence to the sobs wracking his shuddering frame. Once they made it to the shore, he ordered Genji to lift his arms so he could peel off the remnants of his coat, then draped his yukata over his shoulders and rubbed his arms in an attempt to get the blood flowing back into his limbs. 

As they followed the trail that would take them back home, Hanzo’s teeth chattered so hard he feared they may crack, while Genji’s remained worryingly still. He shivered only a little now, which seemed wrong, somehow. The trail wasn’t any longer than it’d been the first time, the distance no further, yet it seemed to stretch for miles, and Genji’s shuffling gait wasn’t fast enough, so Hanzo grit his teeth to force them still and kneeled. 

Genji stared back at him dumbly. “Get on my back.” 

His skin shriveled with revulsion where soaked fabric touched, his muscles moved like rocks in his flesh, but he could do this much. He had to. 

Reluctantly, wordlessly, Genji climbed onto his back, surprising Hanzo with how warm he was. And he walked.

Eventually, the densely growing maples and pines grew sparser, until at last Shimada castle came into sight. Hanzo didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to be home in his entire life. Moving on a burst of energy, he made it to the gate before laying Genji down so he could pound his fists clumsily against the wood, shouting through blue lips and a tongue that flopped uselessly in his mouth. 

Soon, a guard came to the gate. At first, he thought the pair might be a pair of village children, since everyone knew the kumicho’s kids rarely left the premises, and never unsupervised, but then Hanzo looked up, revealing a gaze so intensely focused it _burned_ , and the guard called for assistance. 

Later, Hanzo would only vaguely recall being lifted by warm hands and brought inside, where he was promptly wrapped in a blanket and sat in front of the fire. A bath was drawn for Genji, lukewarm at first so as not to hurt him, and gradually raised in temperature. He was still being tended to when Sojiro Shimada decided to make his displeasure known to his eldest.

Hanzo had been staring vacantly into his untouched tea when a shadow fell over its golden surface. He glanced up to see a looming, shifting hole cut into the world. 

“How could you be so irresponsible?” The abyss shaped like his father asked him. “Your thoughtless actions today could have killed your brother.” Hanzo tried to speak, but nothing came out. Eventually, the nightmarish form sighed, turning its back on him, and through the mud of his mind, Hanzo heard clearly, “I’d have expected better from my heir.”

Hanging his head, Hanzo gripped the cup in his hands tightly to quell their trembling. 

Hours slipped past, faster than sand, amorphous as fluid. 

Shortly after Genji had been tucked into his bed, a second form joined him. Arms encircled his torso, holding him tightly against a chest that stuttered and stilled erratically. 

Hardly daring to breath, Genji whispered, “... _nii-san?_ ” The strange, uneven breathing came to an abrupt halt. “You saved me.” He sounded awed. “Han-”

The arms wrapped around him pulled him closer, squeezed him tighter, and a head pressed against his back so he could feel its denial through his skin. Reaching over his shoulder without looking back, Genji did his best to comfort the shaking form by patting anywhere he could reach. 

Soon, however, his movements grew sluggish, his breathing evened out.

Despite a feeble struggle to stay awake, exhaustion inevitably claimed him, pulling him down into the depths of unconsciousness.

A single thought occurred to him before he sank fully into a dreamless sleep, a curious thought which would keep him up for many nights after:

 _It feels like drowning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tasukete_ \- Help!
> 
>  _Geta_ \- Japanese-styled wooden sandals
> 
>  _Ojizou-sama (Ksitigarbha)_ \- a protector of firemen, travellers, expectant mothers, and children in Buddhist beliefs 
> 
> _boke_ \- stupid
> 
>  _hokora_ \- small shrines made for minor gods
> 
>  _kappa_ \- Japanese youkai that lives in the water and likes cucumbers


	43. Return to Hanamura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since their battle at the shrine, Genji had honestly believed that the revelation of his survival would put an end to his brother's annual visits to Hanamura. To his immense frustration, this turned out not to be the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with the intent of making it more light-hearted so, naturally, this needs a warning for Violence.
> 
> TW: Hand trauma
> 
>  _Teme_ \- bastard
> 
>  _Futari-tomo hontou shinitai no ka?!_ \- Both of you honestly want to die?!

It was nearly midnight. 

For most, this would hold little significance. What was one more day in a line-up of thousands? But to the cyborg sitting alone in his quarters, pulsing quietly in the permeating gloom of a starless night on untouched sheets, it was the eve of an anniversary. 

Soon, the horizon would brighten with splashes of color, peaches and soft yellows. The birds of Gibraltar would awaken from their slumber to sing the sun awake.

There was beauty in life, in color, in quiet, in stillness. 

Poised in a lotus position, Genji inhaled deeply, slowly, listening to the rough mechanical rasp as the air flowed past his mechanisms and into damaged lungs. When that was done, he exhaled, then repeated, even more slowly. It calmed him, allowed the memories this day inevitably stirred to shift and settle like pebbles at the bottom of a river. 

A soft ping from his phone roused him, and he turned to glance at the device on his nightstand casting its bluish tint against the wall. A notification stood illuminated on the screen: _Hello, Genji._

A small smile curled his lips. “Hello, Athena. Texting’s new.”

Another notification appeared.

_Apologies for contacting you at this late hour._

Though she likely couldn’t see him outside of the public areas – unless she’d synced to his camera? - Genji shook his head, answering aloud once more, “It is no trouble, Athena. What seems to be the problem?”

_It is likely nothing. However, Agent Shimada seems to be displaying some unusual behaviors._

Already slipping off the mattress, Genji snatched the device off the stand, striding briskly for the door, “What kind of behaviors?”

_My logs indicate that usage of electricity lasted for about twenty-five minutes before all light fixtures were deactivated. At first, I assumed he had merely chosen to rest, but energy consumption is not just minimal, it’s completely absent._

Having nearly flown down the hallway, Genji found himself standing awkwardly outside his brother’s room, staring at the words. “To be honest,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “Hanzo’s never been the high maintenance-type.” 

No further messages lit up his screen, which he could only take to mean Athena was leaving to decision up to him. And for as much as Genji dreaded the thought of potentially waking Hanzo in the middle of the night, what sent a shivering chill down his spine wasn’t the fear of discovering nothing was amiss. In addition to trusting Athena’s judgment, Genji knew his brother. 

There was no way he was okay right now. 

And what irony was it that after spending so many hours waiting for a knock that never came, he would now find himself rapping tentatively on Hanzo’s door. A long period of silence followed before he dared to call out, softly at first. And all the while, a terrible iciness spread through his chest, wrapping its fingers around his heart. 

Enough. If Hanzo was lying awake in bed ignoring him, well, then he was in for a surprise. 

Ports released a burst of steam with a low hiss, “Emergency Override. Overwatch designation: Sparrow.” A status light on the access panel blinked from red to green, acknowledging the successful override. The door slid open, fitting into the wall to reveal an uninhabited room. 

Was the tightness cutting off the air in his chest anger? Betrayal? Disappointment?

It was impossible to tell. There was too much to sort through, the majority of it blurred and indistinct when he tried to extricate them from the resounding echo of _why_ consuming his thoughts. A brilliant verdant flooded the room as he entered it, feeling ungrounded and out-of-place. 

Why was a playground frightening at night, hours after the children had eaten their dinners and been sent to bed? Why was an empty road so unsettling? Places become associated with people, objects, sounds. Perhaps that was why, despite Hanzo’s absence, stepping into his quarters felt so strangely surreal, as though the walls themselves wanted him gone. Even so, Genji rested a palm on the neatly folded, creaseless sheets of the single bed, thinking bitterly of how thoroughly Hanzo had learned to erase his presence over the years. 

It was true, then. Genji was a fool. 

His port lights flickered, allowing the shadows to reclaim what was theirs for a brief moment, before flaring back to life. “Athena.” Keeping his voice forcibly level and calm, he continued, “Can you tell me when my brother last logged out of the training arena?” 

_Last recorded log out occurred at 2300._

An hour. That was enough time to catch a flight, especially if he’d been planning this for some time. And he’d undoubtedly brought Storm Bow with him. The cello case was gone, though a quick peek at his drawers revealed that most of his clothes remained, as well as his toiletries. 

So, the room was clean, not empty. Was that enough cause for hope?

Frowning, Genji glanced at the nightstand, where a pair of small items stood out to him. The first was a small paper crane, its sharp edges dulled with time and handling. The second was a brown-speckled sparrow feather. 

Suddenly exhausted, Genji dragged a palm over his visor with a heavy sigh, “Athena? Is there any chance of you not alerting the others just yet?” 

This time, the answer didn’t come from his phone, and he set it down on the nightstand, listening instead to the synthesized voice speaking coolly through his helmet’s built-in comm system, _All status reports of active Overwatch members must be submitted for review by the end of a 48-hr period._

More than enough. 

Opting out of leaving the way he’d came, he instead headed for the window. There were scuffmarks in the dust on the sill, large enough to have been made by a metallic foot. It was interesting to note that, from the knees down, he and Hanzo weren’t all that different. After prying open the frame, Genji balanced on the threshold, his form stark and incandescent against the starless sky. Into the comm, he responded mechanically, “Understood.” He paused before speaking again, quieter and more sincere, “And thank you.”

Then he was falling, plummeting to the ground from a height that would break a man’s legs, only to land harmlessly on his own, as his prosthetics absorbed the excess shock and redistributed it. With a familiar swell of gratitude towards a certain doctor, he set off, but not towards the airport. No, if he was going to fly overseas, he wasn’t going to be the cyborg sitting in economy class with crying kids and peanut packets. After all, he was already technically going AWOL, so why not fly in style and beat Hanzo to Hanamura while he was at it?

With that in mind, he sprinted towards the jet hanger.

 

Though it would have been prudent to sleep on the flight, given what it was he intended to do, Hanzo didn’t even bother with the attempt. Painted on the backs of his lids was a still frame he harbored no desire to perceive for longer than the second it took to blink. Instead, he reviewed the reinforced security of Hanamura, the slight changes to routine and shifts that were meant to counteract the eventuality of his arrival. Diminished as it was, the clan retained its fair share of enemies, many of whom were ready to divulge its secrets for a price. Once he was certain he’d covered all possible outcomes, Hanzo had spent the remainder of his flight in first class debating whether to deliberately provoke and mock the clan by entering the same way he’d done previously, or exercise caution by exploiting a path heretofore unutilized. 

Once he'd reached the Shimada gates and synced his comm to their security channels, it became apparent that the castle had already been infiltrated by another, a pale armored Omnic armed with katana and throwing stars. 

Apparently, he was being kept in the dungeon to await interrogation. The timing was too convenient, the situation ludicrous. It stank of a trap, yet Hanzo grit his teeth, contemplating his options, of which there was only one. Suppressing an annoyed grunt – the guards were distracted, not stupid – he found a crack in the high stone wall beside the gate and lodged Storm Bow into it to create a handhold. Forgoing the theatrics of previous visits, he clung to the shadows, moving soundlessly across the lawn, and ducking below the porch to avoid detection. 

Upon confirming that the place was deserted, he darted under the roof of a practice dojo filled with tatami mats, wooden floors that effused scents of pine and oil. It was smaller than the main dojo, and further from the castle than he would have liked, considering he’d been hoping to enter from above the rafters, but… He couldn’t deny a certain warmth at the sight of it. For all its tragedy and blood, this had been his home once. Perhaps, one day, he might be forgiven for the nostalgia and longing being within its borders instilled in him, even now. 

In the end, he discarded the cello case for its bulk, leaving him with Storm Bow, and a quiver filled with cyberized arrows. He didn’t hold out much hope for retrieving the case when all was said and done, though a part of him wished otherwise, as he had grown rather fond of it over the better part of a year. With that said, finding another one wouldn’t be difficult, and that was the last he thought of it, pushing such trivialities aside to focus on evading detection, as well as discerning the identity of the Shimada’s ‘Omnic’ as quickly as possible.

Of those who experienced the clan's interrogation methods first-hand, very few lived to tell the tale.

 

A single cell held within it an unwilling occupant, one who’d refused to speak more than two words to his captors since his imprisonment. Often, he scoffed wordlessly at any threats tossed his way, but otherwise maintained his silence. That was, until someone entered to stand in front of his cell. A moment passed where neither spoke. Genji kept his head down, refusing to give his captors even the satisfaction of acknowledgment, before a voice demanded with a familiar tone of disbelief and annoyance, “What are you doing here, Genji?”

The cyborg jerked with surprise, his head lifting sharply to take in the sight of his older brother standing outside the bars. There was blood on his knuckles. “I was captured…” Genji said slowly, still trying to process this new development. Eventually, though, his thoughts caught up with him. “Any plans on rescuing me?”

To his dismay, however, Hanzo actually seemed to consider. Shrugging, though a certain light in his dark eyes gave him away, he replied, “Well, no, but as I am here regardless, I suppose I might as well.”

“Oh. Is it an inconvenience?” Genji muttered petulantly, slipping into Japanese. “I’ll be sure to tell the guys that knocked me out that they picked a bad time for you.” 

He was sulking, Hanzo realized, forcing him to disguise an amused chuckle with a cough. Even with the visor on, he could sense Genji narrowing his eyes with suspicion, and so quickly moved to change the topic by venturing, “Why have you not used your dragon to break free of this place?”

“They all still think Genji Shimada is dead. Who am I to correct them?” 

Probably the only person who could, but Hanzo understood what was said beneath his words. He was free now. Free of the elders, the clan, the crime. They would send killers after him, after those he loved. With that in mind, it was truly a wonder he had ever revealed himself to Hanzo at the shrine. Were their positions reversed, Hanzo had little doubt as to whether he could have done the same. 

Back on the task at hand, the bars seemed old, rusted. Giving it an overall impression of neglect and decay that was purposeful, meant to fill the prisoner with the subconscious dread of being forgotten. Beneath the auburn flakes lay reinforced steel, and in that steel, an electric current. Touching the bars barehanded wouldn’t kill, but it would severely dampen any enthusiasm there might have been to try again. 

But what would happen if Genji touched it? 

Having once seen the aftermath of an EMP fired off in an anti-Omnic riot, Hanzo knew what dead Omnics looked like. It was said that robots couldn’t contain a soul, that it was impossible, yet something was clearly missing from their husks. A spark of life that made them more than metal. 

An image of Genji stumbling backwards, his green lights flickering weakly before shutting down forever, flitted through Hanzo’s mind. Feeling Genji’s gaze on him, he forced down a shudder. “Step away from the bars. I will have you free in a moment.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Genji climbed to his feet and did what was asked, which would have been so much better if Hanzo actually had an idea of what he was going to do next. There wasn’t much time before the other guards realized two of their own were out of commission.

A flash bang wouldn’t them much good, nor would thermo radar, besides letting them know they were screwed slightly ahead of time. But scatter arrow… their tips were superheated. And if the blast were contained to a single point…

Pushing his doubts aside, Hanzo grabbed the feathered shaft of one of his scatter arrows, stared contemplatively at its head, then raised it high and slammed it into the lock. It tried to expand instantly, as it was designed to. With the way blocked, it began to emit high-pitched whine as sparks erupted from the mechanism. The shaft shook, then shot outwards, towards where Hanzo stood. Hastily, he stepped out of the way, allowing it to bury itself in the wall several inches deep. Once the shock and the sparks died down, the pair looked to the lock to see it was melted, and the quiet hum of the current was gone.

Impressed, Genji nudged the bars. They swung open. “You had no idea that was going to work, did you?”

Naturally, Hanzo refused to divulge trade secrets, and hurried towards the exit, with the expectation that Genji would follow. It would have been easy for them to evade the guards on the way out – child’s play, really – except they were already waiting around the corner, fingers on their triggers and tasers armed. Additionally, the men Hanzo had punched unconscious on the way in were awake once more, and judging by their murderous expressions as they attempted to clean the streaks of blood dried beneath their nostrils, were feeling less than charitable towards the former heirs. 

All at once, Hanzo felt three points of fire ignite his veins, boil his blood, seize his muscles, and send his mind into an incoherent mess of tortured agony. He collapsed to the tile like a felled oak, the impact barely registering. As darkness encroached on his vision, he thought he might have heard a synthesized snarl come from directly above his prone form. 

And despite furiously fighting, raging against it with a sense of urgency that superseded pain, unconsciousness inevitably won out.

 

Awareness, when stolen by force, has a tendency to return in parts, as though testing the waters, for fear of being ripped away once again. 

Hanzo heard words, snapped and low, before he understood their meaning. He felt a hard, metal surface supporting his back before understanding its significance. His thoughts came to him at crawl, his body alternated between dull aches and burns. His lungs, he noted wryly, appeared to be tender, suggesting some abuse had occurred after he’d lost consciousness. Being careful to keep his features unexpressive and his muscles loose, Hanzo attempted to piece together what had happened. That is, until a quiet, whispered, “ _Anija?_ ” brought it all rushing back.

Today was the day he honored Genji at the shrine. Genji, who was alive, and who had followed him to this place. In seeking to honor his still living brother, Hanzo may very well have killed him. This time, he didn’t bother stifling a groan, receiving a relieved, staticky sigh in return. “I was beginning to worry.” Hanzo opened his eyes to see Genji’s visor staring back at him, his concern evident despite its barrier. They were sitting on the dungeon floor, moved to an adjacent cell with an undamaged lock, though Hanzo was quick to notice that the bars weren’t closed. In their stead, a pair of clean-shaven men stared coolly back at them. Each were wearing the suits and sunglasses customary of the hired security, though one was slender in build, suggesting youth, if not inexperience. The other was broader in the shoulders, more wary than his companion. Hanzo tried to remember if he’d ever encountered the man on a previous visit to his brother’s shrine. There was no way to be sure, but he rather hoped he had. 

Just in case, he curled his lips away from his teeth, mimicking a grin. The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t be smiling like that when this is finished.”

The second straightened upon realizing he was awake, stepping forward. “Good we can finally start,” he commented, as he approached on Hanzo’s side. “I was getting tired of waiting for the Omnic’s master to wake up.” Genji could feel Hanzo stiffen against his back, rankled by the words, and subtly shook his head. They’d already gone over this. It was better that the clan didn’t know who he was. Ignorant words had ceased to bother him. 

Then the younger guard grabbed Hanzo roughly by the chin, yanking his head up to rove his eyes over his features, before shoving him away so hard it jostled them both. 

“Put those hands near him again,” Genji swore when the guard stood up, twisting as best he could to face him, “and you will lose them.” 

The guard cocked his head, a strange expression crossing his face as he appeared to think over his words. “There’s no way that’s Genji, Mozu.” He said finally to his companion. “He’d hate Hanzo even more than we do.” 

Right. He was just an Omnic. There was no merit in torturing an Omnic.

Mozu didn’t appear convinced, though, because he too strode into the cell, where without a word, he reached for Genji’s visor. 

Without thinking Hanzo blurted, “Are you certain you want to do that?” It came out confident, despite its improvised nature. And he had their attention. “If you take off his mask, in accordance with his programming, he will shortly self-destruct.”

The younger guard stumbled in his haste to put distance between them, exclaiming, “What kind of insane defense mechanism is that?” The other, however, appeared merely intrigued. Genji, for his part, seemed to be waiting to see how this desperate bid of his would resolve itself. Well, that made two of them. 

Splitting his mouth into a macabre grin, Hanzo replied with the taste of blood on his tongue, “The kind built to keep nosy busybodies such as yourselves out of my affairs.” Immediately, the guard’s expression hardened, rage overriding his fear. 

His words didn't seem to have any effect on Mozu. He examined Genji’s form, taking in the sleekness of his design with a hint of admiration. “I’ve never seen any Omnics quite like this. Is it a new model?”

Hanzo affected a bored sigh, “Or perhaps I am simply better funded than your employ-”

A clawed hand raked across his cheek, leaving three streaks of fire in its wake. With a garbled shout, Genji lunged for the assailant, struggling against the ropes binding them until they shrieked at the strain. 

Unperturbed, the young guard merely frowned at the display. “This _must_ be his Omnic. Remember the way he was in training? Only something programmed to like him would defend this man.” 

Training? Then they weren’t hired guns? 

Grunting his displeasure, Mozu rose to his feet. His hand moved to his gun as he stared coldly down at the cyborg. “What a loyal dog, you are.”

Sensing the danger, Hanzo opened his mouth to draw the attention back to him, only to nearly bite his tongue when Genji rocked backwards, slamming his head into his. “What are you doing?” he hissed out of the side of his mouth, wincing at the starbursts of pain shooting from the back of his skull.

“Distracting them.” Genji whispered back quickly. “Help me.”

Louder, he said, “And you call yourself a ninja?!” He struggled, a feckless Omnic frightened of the impending doom its master had brought upon it. 

The younger guard cackled. “Alright, enough of that. You’re no good to us if you kill each other.” He reached out for either of them. It was hard to tell because once his hand was in range, Hanzo swiveled around with the speed of a viper, sinking his teeth into thin fingers, breaking through skin until thick blood washed over his tongue.

A brutal impact at the back of his head forced his jaw open, allowing the guard to yank his wounded fingers out of range. Dizzy and unfocused, Hanzo thought he saw a smear of crimson on the butt of Hattori’s gun.

When the guard led his injured companion out of the cell to care for the bites that were very nearly amputations, Genji muttered, “Are you alright?”

“I’ve been better,” Hanzo answered tightly. Genji’s port lights were hurting his eyes. “But I’ll live.”

Shifting slightly, Genji nodded. “Well, you’ll have to have Mercy check you out when we get back. Who knows where that guy's been?” Hanzo stared blankly at him for a moment before barking a laugh. The force and sound of it both sent spikes of white-hot agony through his skull, but he could tell that Genji was pleased, and somehow, that made it worth it. 

Unfortunately, it did not go unnoticed. “ _Teme._ ” Pale and carved from fury, the young guard stalked towards them, stopping only briefly when Mozu attempted to restrain him. 

“That's enough! You’re being baited.”

Snarling, the younger guard ripped his good arm away from him, clutching the other close to his chest as scarlet streams continued to weep from the bandage hastily wrapped around his wounds. Marching forward, he snatched his gun from its holster to aim at Hanzo’s temple. “ _Futari-tomo hontou shinitai no ka?!_ ” Just then, the ropes grew slack, shocking the men on both sides of the barrel, but before either of them could react, Genji leapt to his feet to shove a shuriken into the guard’s carotid artery. 

Stepping over the choking, dying man, Genji said only, “Let’s go.”

Hanzo hesitated. Stopping in his tracks, Genji glanced back with a question on his lips to see him picking up the guard’s slick gun with a grimace of distaste. He waved Genji on to check the hallway, just to make sure they didn’t make the same mistake twice, and after only a brief pause, he was gone, leaving Hanzo alone with the sole remaining guard. He was slumped against the wall, staring at the body with his fingers running through his hair. Hanzo moved to step past him. “He admired you, you know.” He stopped. “Once,” Mozu added with a bitter chuckle. A memory surfaced, that of training alongside children in the dojo, shortly before the end. Those children would all be adults, now, guards and ninjas. Assassins. 

“I know,” the heir said softly, his head bowed. “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, the guard turned to look at him, and Hanzo searched for some emotion, be it hatred or fear. There was nothing. “Leave. Run like always. Do whatever you want, I don't care. Just go.” 

Without another word, Hanzo left and didn't look back, leaving the man to his grief. He found Genji waiting for him outside. Before he could speak, Hanzo held up a hand to stop him, “Think you could find a place to hide?” Not in the corridor, obviously, but there had to be somewhere even the most eye-catching cyborg in existence could remain undetected. 

“I’m sure I could,” Genji answered stiffly, interrupting his train of thought. “But I’m not going to if you’re not.” Of all the stubborn, nonsensical, ridiculous, idiotic-“Why aren’t you, by the way?”

Shaking his head, Hanzo started down the corridor, since dawdling was what got them into this mess in the first place. “I came here with a purpose. A purpose I must carry out." Glancing back at Genji, he reiterated, "I _have_ to do this.” An alcove towards the end provided some respite, enough for him to activate Storm Bow’s tracker. With any luck, they’d stored his weapons with Dragonblade, though they were likely being watched in case of this exact eventuality. 

The alcove was damp and claustrophobic, saturated with the cloying scent of rot and dust. It barely fit the pair of them, lending itself to a sense of inescapability when, from his side, Genji fiercely whispered into the gloom, “Hanzo, help me understand. Why is this so important to you?”

Disbelieving, Hanzo tilted his head to stare at him. How could he honestly not know when it was so obvious? Barely audible, he breathed, “Because you’re alive.”

For a time, Genji said nothing, too startled by the admission to respond. In the distance, panicked shouts could be heard. Feeling as though the ground had shifted, Hanzo closed his eyes in an attempt to steady himself, only to suck in a sharp breath when Genji gripped him tightly to prevent him from slumping. “Hey… You’re in no state to be fighting, _anija._ ” Hanzo frowned. His head pounded. 

“Surely, you and Agent McCree have overcome greater odds than this?” Genji didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he craned his neck to peer outside, where a crowd of guards, human and Omnic alike, were preparing to descend upon them. 

After setting Hanzo against the wall as gently as he could manage, Genji told him, “Stay here. Do not move from this spot. I will come back for you soon.” That wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to leave, yet Genji slipped into the corridor, instigating a cacophony of shouts and gunshots. Someone groaned, low and pained. It took a minute for Hanzo to consider that it might have been him. Worry choked him, the thought of losing Genji to the clan unbearable. 

Eventually, silence reigned, though the occasional moan could still be discerned, which meant that Genji had spared the guards. It took too long for the light at the end of the alcove to be obscured by his form, but then, there he was with Storm Bow and Dragonblade strapped to his back. Scuffed and bloodied, but undeniably whole. Through the headache and unsteadiness, Hanzo managed an honest smile. 

Quickly taking him under the shoulder, Genji helped him make the trip to the shrine, where they burned incense at the base of the torn scroll in honor of what was and what might still be, leaving in their wake a single sparrow feather. One last time.


	44. Hustle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beat after a successful mission, McCree and Hanzo find themselves lacking the funds and transportation needed for a comfortable return to their base of deployment. It's happens to the best, but never for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another thanks to dilfosaur for the inspiration!

“Must we enter this dive?” Jesse shot a quick, frustrated glance Hanzo's way before shrugging. 

They’d been trudging through muddy roads for what felt like hours. Jesse was fairly certain he had dirt clinging to nooks and crannies he hadn’t even been aware he’d had until Winston had the bright idea to drop them off for a mission in the middle of South Literal Nowhere. Well, they’d accomplished the objective, gotten the info from the suspected – _confirmed_ Talon board member, and now they were stuck outside the seediest bar in town with nothing but soaked boots and crusty slacks. 

Counting off on his fingers, McCree listed, “We’ve got no money, no food, and the comm’s busted to pieces” and finished by jabbing a thumb at the welcoming neon sign, _The Swamp Bar_. Below which there were several ads for beers and a wooden plaque nailed to the door that boasted of a Happy Hour that ended at 8. “Now, it seems to me like that dive’s our only option, but if ya got any other ideas, hunny bun, I’m all ears.”

Hanzo scowled through his dripping bangs, already marching up the driveway to get out of the rain. “Enough with the endearments already, cowboy.”

They entered together, and what would happen next would fill Jesse with such joy that regret over not having carried a camera at the time would bring tears springing to his eyes for years to come. In what had to be deliberate, Hanzo barged past a crowd of bearded men in plaid and their similarly dressed sons to plant himself by the pool table. He seemed to give the table itself a quick once-over, ignoring anyone who tried to get his attention with a wave of his hand and a distracted, “ _Wakarimasen_ ,” before picking up a pool stick from the pointy end and aiming the handle at his eyeball. “ _Kore wa nan desu ka?_ ”

At this point, most of the patrons were staring at the Asian man handling their sports equipment like he’d never seen anything like it in his life with a mixture of bemusement, suspicion, and hope. 

Grabbing a beer from the nearest table – someone protests and they go ignored – McCree made a big show of apologizing for his friend. He’s not from around these parts, you see, but he’s always been mighty curious about American culture. 

Here, McCree lowered his voice, causing those interested to lean in as he winked conspiratorially, “Especially gambling.” At the same time that several of the older folks returned to their drinks with knowing chuckles, Hanzo seemed to have realized that you hit the ball with the pointy end, and men started rising out of their seats, happy to teach the man a thing or two now that the possibility of a quick buck was clear. And McCree led them over to his foreign traveling companion, chatting amiably with a trio of sandy-haired former fratboys while wearing a grin so wide and honest his teeth hurt. 

Hardly a challenge. 

The first game, Hanzo scratched the table hard enough the bartender with the handlebar mustache developed a visible twitch, after which he sent a striped ball – he was playing solids - flying off and crashing into a beer glass. Seemingly apologetic, McCree tipped his hat to the bothered customers, low enough to hide a smirk, and even helped to clean up. Meanwhile, Hanzo refused to acknowledge that he had made a mistake, holding himself with a haughty air that suggested he would admit no fault, and that was just fine with present company. Man didn’t have to admit anything as long as his wallet spoke for him. 

On the second scratch, McCree whistled, dragging a palm over his eyes as though he couldn’t bear to watch, anymore. “Hey, fellas, maybe that’s enough for one night, yeah? Why don’t ya let me buy ya’ll a beer and we’ll call it even?” 

“Tell your friend that if he plays us double or nothing for $50, we’ll buy the two of you enough to last you ‘til closing.” McCree crossed his arms over his chest with a thoughtful frown, as though considering. Hanzo was still playing at not speaking a lick of English, so how to-

With a subtle roll of his eyes, Hanzo nodded towards the trio, holding up two fingers with an arched brow. And McCree could have kissed him. Hurrying over to his side, Jesse smacked him hard on the shoulder, “You got it, buddy!” Hanzo scowled. “See if you can win the next one, okay? Fifty bucks are riding on it and I’ve got a might thirsty.”

When all was said and done, Hanzo scratched seven times, broke two beer glasses, lost twice, and won a grand total of three times. They stumbled out of that bar with a hundred dollars in their pockets and more alcohol in their systems than their livers knew what to do with. 

It was a long walk down the road to the nearest Overwatch settlement, and they still didn’t have a car. Plus, there were few driving down a dirt road at night who’d pick up a cowboy packing heat and his very handsome, very scary friend. Add that on to the two of them being clearly intoxicated and the notion of catching a lift seemed like a long shot.

About thirty minutes later, they were standing outside a 7-11, debating whether to ask the cashier if they could borrow her phone, or to use some of their well-earned cash to buy chips and a pair of cokes for the road, when the sound of the old woman screaming came from inside. Now, heroes, usually, won’t hesitate to help anyone in need. With that said, Hanzo and McCree took a moment to consider their options. 

Still a bit unsteady on his feet, McCree pressed his face against the glass to see a young man in a ski mask trying to calm the elderly woman at the register down. This would have worked much better if he weren’t holding a gun at the time. 

Well, it didn’t seem like the old lady was in any danger. Hanzo sidled up beside him, squinting oddly at the scene, “That poor woman.”

As the woman’s screaming grew increasingly hysterical and the boy increasingly flailing and desperate, McCree shook his head with a snort. “That poor robber.” 

In fact, the rookie crook was outright begging at this point, “Please, Ma’am, someone’s going to call the cops!” and sounded about a hair’s breadth away from tears himself. What was it that had put that gun in his hands, then? A bet? Getting involved with the wrong crowd? Or was it just desperation? Nothing justified the act, of course, but teens didn’t wind up pointing guns at nice old ladies without a story behind it. 

A security alarm started up, blaring and gunning for attention. McCree turned to see Hanzo had put his foot through the glass. The police would be there in minutes, which was great, when you weren't one of the most wanted men in America. 

The instant the alarm activated, the masked teen bolted for the backdoor. What he didn’t expect was the former yakuza and outlaw waiting for him in the parking lot, each of them sporting grins that missed friendly by a mile. Easing up upon seeing how the kid frantically backpedaled at the sight of them, Jesse quietly gestured for Hanzo to let him take the reins on this one. Judging by the too-long limbs and sneakers that pinched at his ankles, Jesse guessed that the wannabe crook was riding the tail end of an adolescent growth spurt. 

With a jaunty wave, he drawled, “Heya.”

And from the way the kid reacted, the cowboy might as well have threatened his family, his goldfish, and all his descendants down the line, because he aimed his gun at McCree’s hat with trembling hands. “D-don’t come any closer, Mister. I know how to use this.” 

“Sure you do.” From his peripheral, Jesse could see Hanzo, slowly edging closer to disarm him, and prayed he could manage it before the twitchy kid accidentally put a bullet through his favorite hat. 

There was a lamppost in the parking lot. One of those old fashioned types that had gone out of fashion centuries ago, and thus became their own brand of endangered, except in backwater places like this, but it worked fine, and right now, it was shining a bright enough light on their little scene to out them to anyone with eyes, and none of them wanted the attention that well-intentioned interference would bring.

Slowly, he reached under his serape for Peacekeeper, intent on shooting out the bulb, but at the sight of its barrel leaving the holster, the kid let loose a high-pitched squeak, the tremors wracking him growing even more pronounced. Noting the effect the weapon was having on him, Hanzo growled, his shoulders hunching forward, “Put it away, McCree. He’s frightened enough.” 

That was debatable, considering he’d tried to rob a helpless little old lady – and one with a set of pipes on her, too. Was she still going? – but after a nonchalant trick spin of his revolver and a tap to the head, he dropped it back in its case, watching closely when the teen visibly relaxed. “Alright,” the rookie breathed, his chest heaving with nerves, “now you two get inside and we’ll pretend like you never saw me.” 

“Now, we’d like to do that,” Jesse told him without a hint of a slur, taking a steady step forward. Hanzo, he noticed, was still a mite too far to help, but that was okay. He had this. “But there’s no guarantee you won’t shoot us in the back, is there?” The boy’s dark eyes bulged behind his mask, the skin around them clearly washing out. He’d never hurt anyone in his life, probably never even held a gun before tonight. Whatever the law had to say about it, to Jesse, he was still an innocent. He had a chance.

There’s not dying for your sake, and not dying because a kid doesn’t need murder on his conscious before he can legally buy a drink to drown the memory with, and this was the latter, so when McCree made a grab for the gun with a move Reyes had used on him so many times he’d lost count, he wasn’t intending on getting shot. 

Which, naturally, was exactly what happened. 

Just as McCree redirected the kid’s arm, the gun went off with a bark, its bullet missing him by a wide margin, followed by a metallic ping from close behind, and a bolt of agony traveled up from the pant’s seat of McCree’s britches. At first, he’d assumed he’d been shot from behind by the gawky teen’s gang, but a quick look at Hanzo revealed that he was just as confused as him, as was the kid. No one seemed to know exactly what had occured until the archer tracked the likeliest trajectory of the bullet, following the path from the barrel to the lamppost, before settling on McCree’s rear. And the corners of his mouth ticked up. 

Before anything could come of it, though, his form blurred, and the gun went flying from the stunned teen’s hands. Afterwards, a quick swipe took out his knees, sending him sprawling to the concrete, looking dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to speak, only to snap his jaw shut when Hanzo stared down his nose with an acidic glare, “Silence. Do not tell me about your life or your problems. I do not care.” Sirens blared in the distance. “Now get up and go home. If we find you stealing again, do not expect us to be so merciful a second time.” The boy cringed when Hanzo reached out a hand to help him up, before grudgingly accepting the offer. 

From where he stood with a hand applying pressure to his britches and stress lines pulled taut on face, Jesse managed to add with a subtle undertone of strain, “And should anyone ask, you came here cuz you wanted some late night snacks and panicked when you heard screams.” Frowning at the kid staring at him with doe eyes, he tacked on a testy, “Now, get.” 

Instead of leaving immediately, however, the boy pulled off his mask, revealing a head of dark brown curls and a dubious frown, “Why are you doing this?” He nodded towards McCree. “I shot you.” 

McCree shrugged, saying dismissively, “Yer not worth the paperwork.” The boy glanced at the door of them and up the street, then nodded. There might have even been a hint of gratitude there. They’d never know for sure, because he turned on his heel and sprinted into the shadows of the trees bordering the sidewalk, disappearing seamlessly into the dark. Before he could get too far, Jesse hollered after him, “And ya didn’t shoot me! The dang lamp did!”

A chuckle, rich and melodious, started from behind him, and he peeked over his shoulder to see Hanzo with an arm wrapped around his stomach as he failed to muffle his mirth. 

For a second, it seemed all McCree could do was stare. Then his wits caught up and he sheepishly scratched at the back of his neck. “Aw, come on, darling. It’s not that funny.” 

Wiping a tear from his eye, Hanzo nodded, then deftly maneuvered himself under McCree’s prosthetic arm, whereupon they began the last stretch of their journey back to the nearest Overwatch base. Not far down the road, McCree pitifully bemoaned his fate. “How am I gonna explain this to Angie?”

From beside him, Hanzo snorted, not even out of breath after shouldering most of his weight for nearly a mile. “It is not Dr. Ziegler you should be concerned with.” 

With the vehemence of a curse, McCree breathed, “ _Genji._ ” He fixed Hanzo with a look of pure horror. “He’s never going to let me live this down.”

Hanzo shifted his grip on the cowboy to obscure a smile, “Would you rather go to a hospital?”

“Darlin’, I’m wanted in like,” he paused with a frown of pure concentration, counting on his fingers before exclaiming, “a whole lotta states!”

The excitement caused him to briefly overbalance, nearly bringing Hanzo down with him. When they managed to steady themselves, Hanzo refused to comment, except to warn with the iciness of a polar cap to, “Never. Do that. Again.” 

Gulping, Jesse was only too happy to oblige.

 

It took them roughly two hours to reach the base where most of their teammates were awaiting their return, meaning it was far enough into the night that it was arguably morning, and as it was doubtful that anyone was expecting them just then (and McCree was hopeful about patching himself up before the incident became a stain on his name forever) he turned to his partner with an honest suggestion, “Maybe we could sneak in through the back?”

Hanzo fixed him with a skeptical brow. “Like a pair of rebellious children?”

McCree shrugged. “Well, if you’re not up to it, partner-”

“…I did not say that.”

Being a ninja and an outlaw respectively, breaking and entering sort of came with the territory. After McCree jimmied the lock on the window, Hanzo laid down a palm on the sill to vault over the threshold with the grace of a panther, touching down on the tile in a neat crouch with bent knees and one steadying hand on the floor. After watching him, McCree attempted to do the same. 

Except he banged his head on the window frame, tripped with one leg over the threshold, stumbled, then fell through the opening, landing flat on his rear in a mess of limbs and spurs. An alarm sounded through the base, the second of the night, while McCree howled in harmony. It was apparently enough to wake the entire compound, because Soldier 76 came running up the hall with his pulse rifle out in seconds, followed by Angela, armed with her staff, and Genji, who took one look at the scene before putting his shurikens away with a bemused, “Huh.”

Faced with such an audience, Hanzo pointedly stepped away from the wounded cowboy, “I do not know this man.”

After a beat, Morrison reluctantly lowered his weapon, Angela shook her head, muttering, “It’s too _everything_ for this,” and Genji nodded solemnly, like he completely understood – McCree felt impossible hope balloon within him – and then he whipped out a camera phone. 

Click.


	45. The Rift: Endure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshal Reyes has some explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this is not a sequel to the original Rift trilogy. It's not even an epilogue, really. It takes place directly after those events, but it's not so much a conclusion as a short peek into the aftermath, which is the main reason why I waited such a long time to write this. It's just, well... When you just _know_ what happens next, it's tough not to get the words out.

There are celebrations that mean something and celebrations that don’t. Sometimes they feel empty and unwarranted. For Marshal Reyes, what makes the difference is how you get that victory. The lows you sank to make it happen, the people you sacrificed. 

The monster you became. 

As the revelry reaches its apex in the center of the Shatterdome, with tears streaming down the faces of the embracing, shouting, weeping staff around Reyes, consisting of those who can either finally go home to their families or put their memories to rest – there wasn’t a man or woman left alive who hadn’t lost someone - he thinks that every low-down dirty thing he did, every deal with the devil he made to make sure this happened, was worth it. 

Then the Jaeger pilots returned, exhilarated even in their exhaustion, and the cheers reached a deafening volume as they were swarmed and thanked profusely by anyone within range. Riding on an adrenaline high, Fareeha and McCree didn’t mind having their arms pumped until their joints began to protest, threatening to pop out of their sockets. Jack allowed maybe a dozen or so to approach before begging off with an audible edge. Deftly taking him by the arm, Ana joined him in navigating away from the worst of the crowd before Reyes had to intervene. 

Zarya was similarly protective of her co-pilot, if much more vocal and visibly intimidating than a worn out Boy Scout from Indiana could ever dream of being. In any case, as obviously fatigued and distracted as they all were, relief and happiness shone through. This held true for all except Hanzo freakin’ Shimada, who elbowed and pushed and shoved past his brand new fans to make a beeline for his position. The closer he got, the easier it became to make out features contorted with anger, and while Reyes had never drifted with the man before, he also wasn’t an idiot. It was plain by the look of his face that the former yakuza wasn't looking for a congratulatory handshake. 

It was bound to come to this, eventually. Secrets weren’t meant to be kept. So Reyes doesn’t flinch at the cold fury cresting off him, or wince at the green-accented Omnic trailing after him, its light frame bombarded by the flow and ebb of the crowd. 

“Marshal Reyes,” Hanzo Shimada manages once he’s reached him, standing tall and regal with his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle at the corner of his cheek twitched, “we need to talk.”

“But not out here,” Reyes cut in, ushering him towards his office at the same time Amelie was made aware of Hanzo’s absence. A worried frown curved her lips as she watched them leave, and felt the blank-faced Omnic hovering at her elbow stand a little straighter, but she resolved to wait, trusting Hanzo to inform her of his conversation with the Marshal, the cause for the seething rage she could know feel seeping through her partner’s careful control for the first time, and most importantly, his reason for excluding her, once they could speak in private.

 

It felt strange to be standing in the Marshal’s office once more, with its twin pools of crystal clear water, and the path that led between them to the warm hearth at the end. The stone path, the wooden gate with its golden sigil, the fireplace, and gently rippling pools of what may have been excess coolant. It was an aesthetic which lent itself to balance and serenity, and one Hanzo had even found calming on the rare occasions when the Marshal had spoken to him in his office. Now, however, the murmuring ripples, the whispers of flame, they were all background noise to the roar reaching its crescendo beneath his skin. 

Behind them, the door opened once more, allowing a single Omnic to slip in. It’s entrance did not go unnoticed – on his metallic limbs, he made the same tinny sound as Hanzo walking in - as the archer glanced over his shoulder, his expression briefly contorting with pain. When he turned back to Reyes, his voice came out strained, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

And it would have been so easy for Reyes to pretend he didn’t know _exactly_ what he was getting at, except he was tired of the games and subterfuge. The war was over. The Kaiju were trapped behind the Breach. 

Really, it was about time his sins had caught up with him. 

“You and La’croix are skilled,” he began levelly, keeping his expression devoid of any particular emotion. Scowling at the lack of reaction, Hanzo folded his arms over his broad chest. He was still wearing his drive suit. There hadn't been time to change. “That’s undeniable. But you had no anchor, no reason to fight for us besides your personal motivations,” and here, his tone turned bitterly caustic, causing Hanzo to immediately stiffen as they flew at him like knives, “so you’ll have to forgive us if trusting you on your word alone was a little difficult to swallow.”

“My honor,” Hanzo grit out, curling his fingers, “is not at question here. Do you or do you not admit to conducting unethical experiments on Omnics and humans? 

“I was ready to do whatever it took to make sure as many of my pilots came back from their engagements in one piece, as much as humanly and inhumanly possible, and - believe it or not, Shimada - that included you and La’criox.”

“That still does not explain why you did not tell me.”

“Why didn’t I tell you that I was working with a criminal organization to illegally recreate human thought processes and memories in Omnics? To build artificial pilots from the memories of dead people?" The Marshal scoffed. "Guess it must have slipped my mind.” 

“Reyes,” Hanzo growled in warning, traces of cerulean engulfing, illuminating his dilated pupils. Behind him, Genji’s lack of presence felt as though it were seared into the back of his skull. He’d never been so quiet in life. He’d been music and dancing and laughter, ruthless teasing and a mischievous glint in brown eyes, bright and darting. Never still. Never silent. 

Now, only the scrape of metal on stone gave him away as he shifted. 

“Look, to put it simply, it was on a strictly need-to-know basis, and you didn’t need to-” 

A closed fist slammed against the Marshal’s jaw, the impact rippling through his cheek as it launched him off his feet, sending him sprawling. The only reason his jaw was still intact was because some subconscious part of the archer had balked at the thought of harming the man who had given his life meaning, his death purpose. Standing over the one who had promised him a chance of redemption, yet who had also twisted the memory of his brother by trapping his likeness in a shell, Hanzo trembled, “I thought you were better than this.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge the ghostly echo of laughter he would never hear again. 

“I trusted you.”

Working his jaw back into place with an audible crack, Reyes scowled down at the floor. “Yeah, well…” He spat a glob of blood onto the tile. “That’s your mistake.” 

The doors opened a second time, starting them both. Security guards streamed inside, “Marshal Reyes!” And surrounded Hanzo, their weapons drawn and aimed at his chest. Slowly, and with a bitter chuckle, Hanzo let his bruising knuckles fall to his side. 

One of the guards looked to Reyes, who still seemed to be processing this latest development. “What are your orders, Marshal?” There was only one order to give, only one he could give. Too many had witnessed the aftermath of Hanzo striking him in his own office for this to be kept under wraps. 

Reyes didn’t think he could give Hanzo the apology he deserved, especially not now, but even if he could have managed it through a glance or a gesture, the archer had already checked out, as though he’d dismissed everyone in the room from his mind and they were simply outstaying their welcome. 

With no small amount of pride, Reyes pushed himself to his feet, before casually dusting off his suit. “Put him in the barracks.”

A growl like radio feedback burst forth from the Omnic when the guards moved to surround the archer to grab him by the arms despite his lack of resistance. His eyes narrowed into slits, Hanzo ripped free, “Do not touch me.” With his head held high, he strode towards the exit. “I know the way.” Then with a smirk tossed over his shoulder, added, “You may follow if you wish.”

Reyes watched as they filed out, secretly hoping that the Omnic would follow. 

It didn’t.

Instead, it turned its expressionless faceplate on him, the judgment nearly palpable. 

Frowning, the Marshal allowed his gaze to slide from the flat space where eyes would roughly be on a human. “After striking the leader of humanity’s last stand, your brother’s lucky to still have a head on his shoulders.”

He should have kept his mouth shut. 

Instead of calming, the Omnic's posture tended towards feral as it viciously spat incomprehensible vitriol, turning sharply on its heel to leave and slamming the steel door behind it.

 

Amelie did not like being surrounded by people or loud noises on her best days. Like her partner, she much preferred quiet and solitude, but was prepared to make an exception for the moment. Just when the flood of congratulations and enthused gratitude seemed to taper down to a manageable stream, however, a deep and booming baritone excuse-me’d and coming-through’d to the front. 

Staring up at the gorilla making his way to them through the gathered Shatterdome employees in the politest way possible, Amelie felt the beginnings of a smile bite into her cheeks. Then came the second wave, as Mei was nearly barreled over by Lena, a stunned Fareeha and McCree was swept up by Emily, and Angela Ziegler, the girl who discovered the secret to opening the Rift, swayed forward before collapsing into the startled arms of Ana and Jack. Carrying nearly her full weight between the two of them, the pilots shot identical expressions of confusion and concern at Winston, silently demanding an explanation, which he reluctantly provided. 

When he was done, Jack gave a short nod before hefting her up into his arms, “Come on, kiddo. Off to the infirmary.” He smirked at Ana as the crowd parted to let them through. “I think we could all use a nap.”

A sleepy, happy giggle slipped past Angela’s lips, followed by a murmured, barely intelligible, “I helped everyone save the world.” Her head lolled to look at them, but stilled when Ana placed a caressing hand over her brow. 

“Rest now, _habibti_. You did well.” And she relaxed, finally falling into a doze as they carried her away, and the crowd closed behind them. 

Amelie watched the proceedings with a twinge of envy, her thoughts drifting to the other half of her own pair, until the mute Omnic at her side slipped its skeletal joints between her fingers, and with a gentle tug, moved to lead her away from the noise and the fuss. It felt oddly familiar to be pulled away like this – the slight strain in her calves and the pressure on her fingertips flit through her thoughts, hovering at the edge of a memory, so she followed, curious as to where the Omnic would take her, and more than a little grateful for the distraction. 

They raced up the stairs, the exertion enough to get her blood flowing so that a hint of a flush filled her cheeks by the time they were leaning over the fourth floor balcony, and she gripped the railing with both hands, tilting her head back to enjoy the rush of warmth from the short sprint, and with stars glittering in her eyes, she turned to thank the Omnic, noticing distantly that even the way it seemed to stare felt… not wholly original. 

And there was something else, emotions fluttered in the drift, feelings that she’d attributed to her own excitement, yet even as she began to calm, they didn’t abate. Frowning down at the revelry below, she pondered whether or not they could belong to Hanzo, although it didn't seem likely. It wasn’t until they’d reached the base that she’d been in the state of mind to notice, but there was something he wasn’t telling her, a secret he refused to share. When he’d seen Marshal Reyes, though, his control had slipped, just enough for Amelie to be reasonably sure this wash of positive emotion filling the Drift wasn’t coming from her partner. 

Could it be the other pilots? A kind of run-off effect from the sheer amount being experienced and shared? 

Somehow, it felt closer than that, intimate, and directly solely at her, solely for her. 

But Omnics weren’t supposed to bring anything to the drift. 

She stared at the automaton once more, searching its virtually featureless faceplate for any trace of identifiable emotion, though she soon came to realize that she was searching in the wrong place. The Omnic’s bare and rudimentary design allowed for a surprisingly expressive range of motion, for its shoulder joints rose defensively, its torso arching away and twisting as though it couldn’t quite stand the flintiness of her gaze. In what was probably a mimicry of human gestures, it clapped a hand against the palm of its neck, ducking its head and averting its visual receptors, as though looking away could somehow make the whole ordeal of suffering her suspicion more bearable. 

There was a man she’d known once who’d displayed similar mannerisms when he was feeling particularly run down and raw – a confident, intelligent, kind, _stupid_ man – but didn’t want her to see. Proud and guarded, yet so obviously hurting that wrapping him in her arms had felt like the most natural act in the world. 

But this Omnic was not that man. 

To even entertain the thought of anything else was an escapist fantasy and an insult to his memory. 

Upset with herself for the momentary slip, she shoved off of the railing, ignoring the way the movement drew its eye-notches back to her, the way the Omnic effortlessly tracked her movement, even shifting its stance as though it intended to follow. For an instant, an urge swelled within her to lash out at the Omnic, to push its chest, to drag her nails across its pristine metal and leave her mark on its expressionless flat face. 

A hint of that must have shown in her features, because the Omnic stilled, suddenly going rigid, like prey waiting for a predator to pass. She imagined it as a rabbit, its heart hammering in its chest, threatening to burst. 

As quickly as it came, however, the urge for violence past, leaving her feeling drained and emptied out. Shaking her head with a rueful huff, she drifted back to the railing, taking her place once more by the Omnic’s side. Leaning against the bar, she rested her head on folded elbows, her gaze trained on the ongoing ruckus below. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “That was no way to treat one’s savior.”

A glimmer of mirth brought a cruel curl to her pale lips, “Did I frighten you?”

Cool metal touched her skin, its temperature close to her own. Disbelieving, Amelie looked down to see copper joints laid over the slender fingers gripping her upper arm. When it saw that it had her undivided attention, the Omnic slowly shook its head. 

Without looking too deeply into what caused it, Amelie forced down a sudden thickness in her throat. She was watching her fellow pilots below when several shouts dragged her from the fog of her own thoughts. A commotion followed as streaks of neon green darted through impossibly small gaps. It pulled up short by the elevator, hesitating long enough for Amelie to recognize it as the Omnic that had both nearly killed and saved her partner. As she watched, it took several steps backwards, then sprinted forward and launched itself at the second floor. Gasps rang out as it flailed through the air - Lena found Emily and they placed themselves protectively in front of the youngest pilots - until finally it collided with the safety bars with a jarring metallic clang. It hung there for a moment, its long limbs entangled with the railing, then propelled itself to the third floor with a single vertical leap. 

Dreading what this strange behavior might mean, Amelie doubled over the bar to find the Omnic staring up from the level below, its V-shaped visor aimed directly at her, somehow speaking volumes though the automaton itself was silent. Her fingers curling reflexively over the metal barrier, she shot a brief, considering glance at her own Omnic, in which time the second had scaled the rest of the way to perch gracefully in front of her. A deep humming rumbled from its carapace, and a steady stream of garbled static, filled with a high whine, issued from its defunct vocal synthesizers. 

Her back straight and hands clenched, Amelie faced its intensity head-on, “Where is Hanzo?” It’s neck swiveled to regard her Omnic expectantly. A melodious whistle flowed from the machine beside her, one that echoed and rebounded between them, becoming more disjointed and sharp with each repetition. The copper and brass Omnic went rigid at the same time a sudden and foreign sense of alarm flooded the connection between her and Hanzo. It was too dull and too close to be him, however. Muffled somehow despite the proximity, as though trapped beneath a veil. 

Her curiosity peaked, Amelie distantly heard herself ask the pair, “Who are you?” 

Each of them turned sharply to face her, as though they'd forgotten her presence. The perched Omnic’s shoulders jumped in a jerky shrug, and ignoring a tone of protest from its companion, it leaped to the ground, landing soundlessly, though its stiff posture belied the storm brewing beneath its carefully controlled demeanor. 

Aspects of its movements, its bearing, triggered half-forgotten memories of a boy with shocking green hair, a lonely boy who learned to harness his loneliness, sadness, and fear into weapons when the world proved unkind. 

His – It’s arm lashed out to grab her, causing her to sneer at the unwanted touch, but though the cold metal wrapped around her bicep was unwelcome, the urgency behind the gesture kept her from pulling away when it crouched to trace a rough shape on the floor. Regretfully, Amelie shook her head to convey her lack of understanding, and the Omnic repeated the action with growing impatience.

The second Omnic approached, laying its palm on her shoulder, and she saw in her mind’s eye… a young bird trapped in a cage, singing sweetly to an empty room. 

A sparrow. 

“That’s… not possible,” Amelie whispered, her voice breaking. “I’ve seen you die.”

In the beginning of their alliance, it had been the most vivid of Hanzo’s memories. Everything that had occurred before, everything that occurred after, had paled in comparison to the brilliant crimson staining his hands, the anguished cries echoing through his thoughts. 

They had found solace in their shared fate as the villains of a hero’s tragedy, yet this Omnic believed itself to be the fallen Sparrow. It was too convenient to be without purpose. Distantly, Amelie registered that smoldering fury born within her at the thought that such a creature had been commissioned so that her partner could be controlled, but was too distracted by another, more unsettling realization to truly give it presidence. 

At her side, the copper Omnic was watching her closely. 

“Then you… “ Her voice came out strained, sounding so little like her that the Omnic tilted its head with obvious concern. “Who are you?”

And all at once, she felt… love. A consuming, unconditional love that could only ever belong to one man. It made her veins cold, sent her reeling. Without thinking, she scrambled backwards on her palms, conscious of the spike of dismay penetrating the tainted ghost drift. 

Curling in on herself, she clapped her hands over her ears, staring sightlessly at the floor, uttering denials on repeat. And she feels... _guilt, disbelief, fear, fear-_

_\- fearalonealonealone_

Frantically shaking his head, Gerard grabbed her hand. He pointed at his chest, at where his heart should have been.

_I never blamed you. I never stopped loving you._

She could almost hear the words. “You say that because you don’t know…” Amelie gasped, choking on the tears clogging her throat. “I’m not the Amelie you loved.” Her head bowed, she reached out to touch the smooth surface of his faceplate. The chill beneath her fingertips was similar to her own. “She never would have hurt you.” 

The air shifted. The Omnic lunged. Amelie remained still, her eyes widening with shock when its jointed limbs twined around her neck, its body light – wrong – nothing like the man she remembered holding her under a bridge in Paris, kissing her lips sweetly at the altar. She’d always known, even back at their happiest, that she’d never be enough, not when there was a world for him to save. And still, she’d given him her heart, had promised him her heart. Him and his heroics, her and her dancing. 

But now the threat was over, the Rift was closed. It was just the two of them again, and Gerard was stroking her hair, careful not to catch it in the parts of his segmented fingers. She wanted to rest her head against his chest, and sob until her tears washed away all the years she’d spent with nothing but his ghost to haunt her, as she stole love from others over and over just to feel alive. 

Omnic or not, real or not, she was a tainted woman. She did not deserve his forgiveness, let alone his heart. That fury, buried under her grief and regret, licked at her insides, revitalizing itself, and she latched into it. “Who did this to you?” Even with her vision blurred, she noticed how Gerard shot a glance at Genji when he rose to his feet, somehow bristling with agitation as he conveyed with frantic gesticulations that they needed to leave. 

Frowning, Amelie dragged an arm over her eyes to clear her vision while Gerard, with a low noise of frustration, warily disentangled himself from her, allowing her to stand, after which the Omnic- Genji spun on his heel to break into a sprint. 

Her own emotions, tumultuous as they were, had blinded her to the terrifying truth staring her in the face, and now that she was no longer distracted by the addition of alien minds to their connection, it was obvious that something must have happened to drive Genji to such a panic, and Hanzo was nowhere to be seen. 

Instinctively, she reached out to the Drift, feeling for his consciousness with her own, but her mind stretched to a void, hungry and terrible. 

Forgoing the stairs or the elevator, she vaulted over the bar, dropping four levels to land in an unoccupied space on the floor in an elegant crouch. Without acknowledging her fellow pilots, she took off from the position like a racer at the starting line. It wasn’t long before Genji leapt ahead of her, and with Gerard falling into step at her side, she wordlessly followed his lead.

 

The cell Hanzo found himself staring into was less than impressive. It was one of three in what appeared to be an unused office space, with a concrete floor and no cot, sink, or toilet to be found. It was also roughly half the size of a typical one-person holding area, as unlike a standard prison cell it was never meant to be used a permanent means of containment, but rather a pit stop until the proper authorities could be notified and the prisoner transferred. Since sitting on the ground held no appeal, Hanzo intended to stand for the duration of his incarceration. Feeling rather confident, he didn’t foresee any issues ahead, until the guards gestured for him to unlatch his prosthetics. In part to buy himself time to think as cold sweat beaded on his neck, he inquired, “Did Marshal Reyes order this?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, one of the men replied, “It’s proper protocol, sir. Any enhancements are to be considered potential weapons and removed.” Overhead, the fluorescent light flickered, as a moth trapped within its bulb repeatedly beat its fragile body against the glass. 

A dull ache from the rounded, scarred flesh directly below his knee warned of swelling from overexertion. Removing his aids would be painful when blood flowed free of all constrictions, but even so, Hanzo stepped into the nearest cell, lowered himself to the ground, no stranger to the sensation of shame eating away at his psyche as he pried his prosthesis off one at a time under watchful eyes of an unwelcome audience. By now, his limbs were practically fused to the metal, and he bit down on a wince, before wordlessly handing them over to the nearest guard. Soon, the cell was shut and locked, the guards filed out to return to their posts, and Hanzo was left alone in his cage to await whatever Fate held in store for him. 

All at once, there was a distinct pop, followed by a sizzle, and the bulb blazed with a searing brilliance before its coils cooled and the dreary room lost its only source of light. From the ceiling, from the walls, Hanzo thought he could hear a steady, maddening drip, the kind of sound one might expect to hear when they were underground. 

His breathing quickened, spiking with irrational fear. His chest tightened, needles pricking the insides of his lungs as a growing ache seized his bones.

Keeping his bearings in the light was a simple matter. He needed only look around to know where and who he was, to remind himself that he was no longer a prisoner of vile manipulation and hate, but without it… Without it, he could be anywhere. 

Letting his head rest against the bars, with dangling strands of sea-soaked hair dripping down the sides of his face and bridge of his nose, Hanzo dug his nails into the armored plates of his drive suit, gritting his teeth against the debilitating sensation of a blade poking out from the wall of his heart. 

Take a breath.

He’s in Shimada castle, huddled in the dark, waiting for the elders to release him or for death to take him. 

Take a breath. 

He’s in the Shatterdome, his head bowed with his regrets as the concrete pressed against his legs worked to cool the inflammation of his freshly exposed stubs. 

Though it was much harder to maintain composure without a present audience, it certainly wasn’t impossible, especially when his solitude was likely to come to an abrupt end at any moment. However, just as he was beginning to reclaim his bearings, an alien despair swept over him, shattered his defenses like a flood bursting through a dam, leaving the river to swell past its banks and obliterate the crops and homes in its path.

Overwhelmed by the force of _confusionguiltragereliefhateloss_ , the archer doubled over, as the maelstrom of sensations joined and compounded his own.

It was then, with his grip of reality nearly wrenched from him that something on the wall shifted in his peripheral, drawing his attention to an inky black and humanoid mass as it coalesced into a form from his boyhood - a slender, compactly built man in an impeccably pressed suit, with black hair styled to a feathery appearance and texture, and dark eyes that looked down at him, judging. Condemning. 

“Hello, young master.”

Normally, he wouldn’t speak. Memories often didn’t. But this wasn’t a memory. 

Not quite.

As the former head of the Shimada clan’s security division stepped forward to carry out his orders, his katana unsheathed and gleaming at his side, the floor opened up like a gaping maw beneath Hanzo to swallow him whole.

 

When the guards saw her, they shifted nervously, micro expressions of fear abundant on their faces. At any other time, seeing such behavior from her alleged allies might have filled Amelie with doubt – How long before she would cease to be Talon’s tool in their eyes? - but for now it only filled her with a grim sense of satisfaction. Marching straight to the nearest guard standing in her way, she effortlessly invaded his personal space, growling, “Let me pass.”

He visibly swallowed. “Marshal Reyes has ordered us to…”

Impatient, Amelie cut him off. “The Marshal ordered this?” In her peripheral, she could see Genji and Gerard moving closer, flanking the guards. “Did he order you to guard the cell? Did he state specifically that there weren’t to be any visitors?”

“Well, no, but the standard procedure is to…”

Gripping the man by his suit jacket, Amelie yanked him down to stare directly into the glare of her poison yellow eyes, “You know who I am. You know what I can do.” Keeping her voice low and composed, she continued, “Now ask yourselves this - is keeping the man who just saved your pathetic little lives in a cage worth dying for?” 

They let her pass. 

With the Omnics close behind, she burst into a rectangular-shaped room with three cells, one of which was occupied by a man with disheveled black hair slumped on the floor. If he heard or saw her entrance, he didn’t react. Behind her, Genji’s accent lights flared. The atmosphere became charged as a deceptively gentle breeze picked up in the stale and windowless barracks. 

Dropping to her knees in front of the cell, Amelie reached through the bars to brush strands of Hanzo’s tousled topknot from his eyes. They were open, empty. Staring without seeing. 

Furious as she was, Amelie could barely manage to choke out, “ _Mon cher_ , what happened to you?” 

Determined to find out, she reached once more for the ghost drift, only to be startled out of her focus by a deep, gravelly baritone, “Now isn’t a good time to be inside that head, Amelie.” 

Turning to face him with a snarl, Amelie spat, “Reyes.” He gazed down at her impassively, waiting. “How did this happen? How could you allow this to happen?”

“He struck me in front of my guards.” A cranking sound drew his attention to the green-accented Omnic, who somehow managed to look murderous through his body language alone. The Marshal wisely looked away. “I didn’t have a choice, La'croix.” 

Her head heavy with disappointment, Amelie countered, “We always have a choice. Isn’t that what you told us?” A mirthless smile curled her bloodless lips, a remnant of the deadly seductress she used to be. “Or do you not believe your own words, Marshal?” 

The Marshal didn’t let her change in demeanor faze him. “Petras didn’t trust you. Any of you. He threatened to have you and Shimada booted unless I found some kind of safeguard. Talon provided a solution.” 

Betrayal cut through Amelie, sharper than a scalpel's blade. With a low note of warning, she sneered, “You, the great Marshal Reyes, made a deal with Talon?”

“To save the human race from extinction.” Though his words were said with conviction, the Marshall refused to look at her, to face her dripping condemnation and disgust. 

Exhausted, Amelie rested her head against the bars, “You sold your soul.” 

Reyes scowled. “And if I hadn’t, this program would have been shut down. The government hasn’t provided us with funding in months. I did what I had to do to end this war, and if I sold my soul, then I won’t deny it.” He looked down at the pins for bravery and valor decorating his chest with disdain. “To be honest, I’d have sold it for less.” 

He wasn’t aware of Amelie’s fingers groping blindly for Hanzo’s hand. When she found it, she latched onto it like a lifeline, closed her eyes, and dove into the ghost drift. 

_He’s in a cage; chained like a feral beast by the very people he was raised to lead._

_A katana falls in the dim, bluish light. It falls slowly, as though time works on dream logic, adjusting its speed on a whim. Excruciating pain shoots up from below Hanzo’s knee before he ever sees the blade make contact. Screams fill the dungeon, high-pitched and animalistic. Curses and whispered words that are really just sounds, babbled and unintelligible._

_Hanzo wonders if he deserves this._

_He thinks he does._

_Then the second strike lands, and the third-_

_"I’d like to see you try to run from the clan now, my lord."_

_-and the dream starts again._

Amelie came back to the sound of her own anguished sobs. Gerard had wrapped his arms around her at some point, and the touch helped ground her, separate her from the nightmare. Slowly, and with tears still streaming down her cheeks, she stood to find the Marshal pinned to the wall by a snarling Omnic. “Genji, let him go.” After a moment’s hesitation, the Omnic released him, allowing Reyes to cough and sputter as he ruefully massaged his neck. He glanced up at her warily. “Get him out of that cell now, Reyes,” she told him with an icy calm, “or so help me the apocalypse will be nothing compared to the devastation I will bring.”

They watched as the Marshal and savior of the human race retrieved the key so he could free one of the pilots that had helped him save it, each of them conveying a silent threat, but the cell door swung open without any tricks or subterfuge revealing itself, so Amelie ignored him, uncaring of the flash of sorrow in his eyes when she shoved past him to cradle Hanzo in her arms. He was shivering. 

“Hey, it’s okay," she whispered, pressing her lips against his hair. "Everything is okay. The war is over now. We’re free.” She glared up at Reyes, as though daring him to contradict her, but the Marshal was already on his way out. The Omnics ultimately let him pass, though Genji deliberately made it difficult. In the end, however, only Gerard watched him go. 

Gradually, Hanzo’s dark irises began to focus on her and the guiding green lights of the Omnic sitting beside her. Meanwhile, Gerard twined his fingers around hers, linking them through the contact. Though they were tired and changed from battle, and knew this hard-won peace would not last forever, they sat in the silence, separate, yet intrinsically connected by a bond that could never be severed, and slowly but surely, began to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next on my list is... A Beauty and the Beast au. 
> 
> Oh. I've been looking forward to this.


	46. The Road To Somewhere - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to say fairytales aren't real until you're living in one.

_The house was large – two floors with a fireplace in the living room, a kitchen, and more than enough rooms for its young occupants to each have a space of their own, except Fareeha had night terrors sometimes, dreams she forgot upon waking that left tear stains on her face, and Jesse didn’t want her to be alone with that if she didn’t have to be, so he and Reyes had carried an extra bed into his room and Jesse had, in a round-about way, thanked her for the company._

_Even after all these months as Jesse McCree-Reyes, he still wasn’t quite used to living in a cottage with wood floors like something out of a Christmas postcard, still shifted in his sleep without making a sound, always trying to draw the least amount of attention to himself when any of his so-called friends could get violent in a heartbeat._

_No, Jesse didn’t mind not sleeping with outlaws and gangsters, or the growing warmth in his chest when he thought about how nice it was that he could breath and snore and groan as loudly as he wanted, without any fear of a fist or steel-toed boot finding him in the dark, but he did miss the open air, the chill of midnight sending rows of goosebumps racing up his arms._

_In the end, he’d traded all that in for a shot at a future._

_Given up the short life of a gangster for a galaxy’s worth of possibilities._

_A scratching at the window tore his gaze from the gray popcorn ceiling. There was a barren tree branch, spindly as a skeleton, dragging its bark against the pane. It reminded Jesse of the stories his mother used to tell him about coyotes. Back before they’d become varmints that scavenged corpses, stole supplies and tore holes in tents, they’d been wandering trickster spirits, fickle beings that could just as easily bless a house as lead it to its untimely demise._

_With a single glance at the girl-shaped lump sleeping soundly beneath multiple layers of blankets, Jesse dropped his gangly, too-long legs from the mattress, rose to his feet without making so much as a rustle, then padded silently over to the window to reach out and snap off the tip of the thin branch._

_He’d never had much patience for superstition._

_Now that he was up, though, it was hard to ignore how dry his throat felt, so he slipped on a pair of long socks, allowing them to bunch at the ankles, and crept out on the floorboards he knew wouldn’t creak so as not to wake Fareeha, since she’d probably want to get a glass of water, too, and while he’d be happy enough to get it for her, she’d never be satisfied with anything less than following him into the kitchen, like it was all some kind of adventure, which would have been fine except… she didn’t know how to be quiet, yet._

_It was hard to unlearn old habits, and for Jesse, every creak of the floorboards beneath her steps rang through the house like a death knell, causing him to flinch and grimace his way throughout the entire trip._

_Reyes didn’t seem like the kind of guy to turn on them, and Reeha seemed to trust him, even if she couldn’t quite articulate why, but good guys could turn bad on a dime. Best to be prepared for the worst. Just in case._

_When the teen slipped out into the hallway, however, he noticed the lights were still on in the living room, and paused, frozen at the first step on the staircase, hidden and crouched in shadow. From below, he could make out the sound of papers shuffling, and a muffled grunt that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There was a clink of glass on wood, meaning Reyes was probably drinking, so though his throat protested at the thought of enduring without so much as a drop of water to slacken his thirst, the boy shifted, slowly, to retreat, only to hesitate._

_This man had saved him from the desert, from dying a nobody with a bullet in his back._

_Turning around, Jesse crept to the edge of the first step, dangerously close to where he could be spotted if Reyes only looked up from the pictures splayed across the coffee table, wrapped his hands around the banister, and peered down for a better look._

_He’d been right about the drinking._

_Reyes had a palm pressed against his eyes. He was sitting on the couch, still dressed in his day clothes, with a beanie on his head and glass of whiskey on a coaster. The pictures, from what Jesse could see, were of a younger Reyes standing proudly in a uniform, or ruffling Fareeha’s hair in sweats. But there was something wrong. In all of the pictures, there was an odd space, as though someone standing there had been edited out. The Reyes in the photographs had his arm wrapped around empty air, a wide grin shedding years off his face. In some of the images, Fareeha stood alone, her body leaning towards nonexistent support, her adoring gaze settling on… nothing._

_With a start, Jesse spotted an image of him and Reyes goofing off for the camera. Not unusual, except why would they stand off-center like that? As though they’d been making room for someone else._

_Jesse didn’t remember there ever being anyone else._

_A strangled cry yanked him from his thoughts, and he jerked to see something that sent a bolt of shame through his core. Rivulets of silver stained Reyes' cheeks, and he tilted his head back against the window behind him. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, exhausted and sad. Trying so desperately to be quiet._

_Not long after, Jesse slipped away._

_A few hours more without water wouldn’t kill him._

 

“Hey, lady!” 

The jarring shout of a disgruntled customer jarred Jesse from his sleep-deprived daze, which was fortuitous because he’d very nearly nodded off into his tuna sandwich. Frowning, he scrunched his nose to make certain there weren’t any condiments on the tip of it before glancing over to spot the ruckus several booths behind him. 

It was a 1950’s styled mom-and-pop diner, a little piece of paradise he’d stumbled onto outside of Dallas that was run by the former owner's elderly widow and staffed by kids on rollerblades. Most of them were shooting wary glances at the rowdy group complaining about their coffee, while an aging woman in a dotted apron tried to defuse the situation. 

“I’m very sorry,” she was saying to a mullet-sporting fella and his three friends, “what seems to be the problem, dear?”

After taking a second to wink at his friends like the dear woman wasn’t staring straight at him, mullet man held up his paper cup, loudly complaining, “This here scalding beverage burned my tongue and likes the roof of my mouth, too.” Jesse resisted the urge to groan. “I feel I should be compensated for the grievous injury to my person.”

Shaking his head with a huff, Jesse took a large bite of his sandwich, followed by a long sip of his water, enough to nearly drain it. It was still cool, condensation beading on the side of the glass, and one had no way of knowing how long it’d before he’d get another one. It would have been nice to savor it a little more, but Jesse was a busy guy. He was used to rushing in and out of fine establishments, especially after that particular mix-up with the bank. 

Not his fault that the police didn’t believe a lone gunslinger could take out a gang of robbers by himself, though even he had to admit that first impressions hadn’t exactly painted a favorable portrait. 

Anyway, the guy apparently wanted fifty dollars worth of hush money. The current owner laughed in his face, one of her curls slipping from her bun to brush against her cheek as she did so. “I almost hate to ask,” she started, her blue eyes twinkling, mirthful and canny, “but has that ever worked?”

When the man rose to his feet, blustering and red-faced, so did McCree. He laid down a few bills on the table, enough to cover the meal plus a generous tip, then sidled over with a cheerful, “Howdy! Something I can help ya’ll with?”

All eyes turned to him, which was par for the course when you styled yourself after Clint Eastwood, though considerably less so in Texas. “This coffee is too hot,” the patron announced haughtily, drawing even more attention to himself with the outburst. “I require reparations. For my suffering.”

McCree shared an exasperated glance with the owner, drawling, “Right. Gotcha. And I completely understand where you’re coming from, Mr…?” – “It’s Bill.” – “Excellent. So, Bill, like I said, I get where you’re coming from but, you see…” And here, Jesse snatched the cup out of the man’s hands, making a big show of staring at the label closely, before pointing out the warning label that plainly stated the beverage could be hot, and to drink carefully. “This all seems to be a rather silly misunderstanding.” The others, Jesse was pleased to see, shifted nervously. They hadn’t expected to contend with anyone feistier than an old woman, though the cowboy noted privately how high a standard that actually was. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” he tipped his hat to the lady with a winning smile, “I’m sure these nice folks didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

The owner wasn’t impressed, though. She had her arms crossed over her apron, a single brow raised in a delicate silver arch. “I can handle my own affairs, son.” 

McCree’s grin turned sheepish. 

“I’ve got a burn." With expressions of strained civility and evaporating tolerance, the pair turned towards the customer once more.

For a moment, McCree considered leaning over the table, letting his serape shift just enough that the guys caught a glimpse of Peacekeeper, but eventually settled with, “Is that rightly so? Well, let’s see it, then.”

It was expectedly satisfying when mullet-man floundered briefly, glancing at his buddies for help, though there was none to be given. 

The not-smile stretching Jesse’s mouth grew a fraction.

_Blood’s in the water, boys._

Eventually, the customer stopped stalling and parted his lips, cracking open his teeth to reveal a whitish blister on the roof of his mouth. 

Jesse whistled. “That's a nasty burn, friend.” And clapped him amenably on the shoulder. “Look’s like it’s healing nicely, though. So, either you’re some kind of mutant, or that there’s been on the mend for about a week.” From beside him, the old woman scoffed, though it seemed to be directed at the stupidity of the aspiring con artists. 

Leaning in conspiratorially, Jesse lowered his voice, “But if it’s a fight you’re itching for,” watching with satisfaction as the blood drained from the group’s faces, pooling somewhere in their boots, “I’d be more than happy to oblige, so long as ya’ll kindly step outside.” Judging by the angry and tight-lipped expressions which greeted the statement, a gun wasn’t needed to get the point across. When the four stood up to leave, each of them wearing impotent rage like badges, Jesse quickly concealed a sigh of relief before stepping sideways to let them pass. It wasn’t until the bell hanging over the exit had rung for the last time that he realized not a single one of them had paid for their meal. 

Rubbing his neck awkwardly, he offered to pay off the bill, even if it meant he might have to tighten his belt for a day or two, or whenever his next bounty was, but the owner waved him off, tearing up the bill with a scowl. “Those folks were trouble if I’ve ever seen it.” Eyeing Jesse closely, she added, “Good riddance to ‘em.”

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Jesse glanced askance, trying desperately to keep his face from betraying how much the bounty on his head was worth. A moment passed and the old woman huffed grudging thanks, before bustling off to return to the kitchens, and Jesse allowed some of the tension to bleed out of him. Before he could leave and put all this behind him, however, a waitress stepped out with a phone held her grasp, “Is Jesse McCree here?”

This just wasn’t his day. 

Dragging his Stetson over his brow, Jesse ducked his head and reluctantly rose a hand, already stepping forward. “Present.”

After giving him a once-over, from his hat to his boots, the girl handed him the phone, then disappeared into the back, leaving him to self-consciously carry the wireless device back to his upholstered seat to have a hushed conversation in a diner still somewhat full. He pressed the speaker to his ear. “Hello?”

“Jesse,” Fareeha answered with urgency, making him lean backwards, pressed against the seat cushion by from the sheer force of his disbelief. And it only got better. “Gabe and Sombra are moving to Japan.” She took a deep breath while Jesse tried to process that. “And I’m going with them.”

_“What?!”_

He hadn’t meant to raise to his voice. Embarrassed, he peeked over his shoulder to see the faces of several startled and annoyed patrons staring back at him, then hunched and cupped a hand around the mouthpiece. 

“This is a hell of a thing to drop on someone you haven’t talked to in months, sis.” He could make out bellowing voices shouting orders in the background, a cacophony of keyboard tapping, phones ringing off the hook. “How’d you find me?”

She breathed out a tired sigh. “You were recognized.”

His thoughts immediately flew to the troublesome customers he’d sent packing, except the timing didn’t add up. Someone must have recognized him earlier, maybe in the parking lot, and if Fareeha knew about it, then the local police were going to be knocking on the door in a handful of minutes. 

Plenty of time to finish a perfectly civil conversation with the sister he hadn’t spoken to in months. 

Massaging the bridge of his nose, McCree tried to reason, “Look, you can’t just uproot yourself like this. Rookie police officers can’t go traipsing around the globe after errant family members. And Sombra’s still in college-“

“She finished those online courses in six months, Jesse,” Fareeha interjected dryly. “Gabe’s been having her hack into databases for him.”

There was a sound like rocks rubbing against each other as the cowboy gritted his teeth. “He don’t have the right.” His hand curled into a fist, thinking of the most recent member of their family, of how much she’d struggled to adjust after her skill as a hacker had gotten her tangled up with Los Muertos, the kind of criminals that made her life so dangerous when she tried to leave that she had to abandon her own name. “She didn’t leave her old life behind to be used by the guy who’s supposed to be helping her get her life together.”

“I get it, Jesse. And I agree. But I can’t just leave them alone in this. Gabe’s messed up, but he’s still ours, you know?”

McCree scowled at what remained of his sandwich. “And you’d rather not leave Sombra alone with him, isn’t that right?” There was a pause on the end, which was the confirmation he needed. Slumping in his seat, he muttered, “So why call me, Reeha? What do you want from me?”

She hesitated. “…I think you know what I want, Jesse.” 

She could have asked him for anything and he’d have done it in a heartbeat, and now that he could hear the silent plea behind her words, the quiet desperation, it was obvious that despite everything that’d happened in the interim, some things didn’t change. “Yeah, I do.” Not sure if the sirens he heard were his mind playing tricks on him or if he had even less time than he’d anticipated, McCree looked out the window, trying to burn the Texas horizon into his retinas. “For your information,” he said with a resigned chuckle, “I’m pretty certain I’m a flight risk.” 

“You’ll think of something.” 

A sudden mental image of tying himself to the plane’s wing and freezing solid in the stratosphere with his lips curled back into a rictus grin popped into his head. As though reading his thoughts, Fareeha added hastily, “Actually, forget what I said. I’ll think of something. Just… get out of there and give me a call when you can. I can’t keep wasting resources on tracking you down without arresting you.” Now he was sure the sirens weren’t in his head. Fareeha could hear them, too. “Stay safe.” 

There was a click when she hung up, followed by a dial tone. McCree stared blankly at the phone in his hand before carefully setting it down as the long stretch of barren road outside became crowded with flashing red and blue lights. 

He glanced at the scene for moment – “Damn.” – before bolting for the nearest back exit.

 

Reyes had found a house in a small village located on the outskirts of a forest, and was nice enough about letting Jesse and Fareeha in once they showed up at his doorstep, although they’d both tried to cut ties in some form or another. Law enforcement for Fareeha and for McCree… ostensibly also law enforcement. 

There was a path of white stones that marked the trail to the entrance, a sloping tiled rooftop with uptilted corners like a shrine, a wooden porch and rice paper sliding doors, like a dwelling straight out of the feudal era. Maybe that was part of why Jesse immediately felt calmer upon walking inside. He'd always felt a kind of kinship with anachronisms.

Well, that, and the sight of Sombra eating breakfast out of a porcelain bowl at the table, sitting cross-legged in her pajamas and perfectly content. Unfazed by their appearance, she waved, and not a second after, was swallowed in a strange hybrid of embrace and chokehold by a very emotional Fareeha. 

“Reeha, please,” Sombra gasped, though she kept her hands raised, making no attempt to free herself. “I can’t… breathe.” And Fareeha let go, looking a tad sheepish before swiftly recovering her ire. 

“How could you leave without telling me?” Sombra averted her eyes. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Sombra muttered, “Sorry, Mom,” under her breath. Fareeha ignored her, “You’re lucky I keep tabs on you two or I never would have known-”

“I don’t think Gabe wanted you to know, _hermanita_ ,” Somba cut in gently. 

“Is that true?” She spun on Reyes, hurt bright in her dark brown eyes. “You were just going to disappear?”

Reyes shifted uncomfortably. “You’re adults now, living your own lives.” It sounded like an excuse, and from the way he flinched, Reyes knew it. “You don’t need me around to hold your hands, anymore.”

McCree scoffed. “Like you ever did.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, ingrate?”

The atmosphere grew tense, like a steel cord about to snap, the way it used to before Jesse left the first time. Fareeha shook her head, reaching out to lay a hand on Jesse’s arm. “We’re not here to fight, remember?”

Reyes frowned at the pair of them. “Then what are you here for?”

Jesse rolled his eyes. “To help you, believe it or not.”

 

“You didn’t have to come after me,” Reyes said the next morning, while McCree sizzled up an omelet on the gas burner stove – a nice modern addition to the traditionally-styled cottage – and Fareeha wolfed down pancakes, washing them down with a carton of milk as Sombra looked on in horror. “In fact, it would have saved me a fortune on groceries alone if you hadn’t.” 

“Jesse, do you hear something?” Fareeha managed after swallowing. 

Scooping the omelet onto his plate, McCree laughed dryly, “You mean, something like complaining about how impulsive actions inconvenience others?” He placed the pan in the sink, turned on the water, and watched the cloud of steam rise. 

“Exactly like that.”

“Sounds like hypocrisy to me, but could be the wind.”

Reyes crossed his arms over his chest, allowing them to see the stack of photos he was gripping. “Oh, har. When did you two become a comedy duo?” Instead of replying, they waited for him to spread the pictures out on the table, and set to work. 

They had, after all, said they would help. 

From what they could tell, and from what Reyes had already determined, the most recent altered photograph was dated a decade before, taken in Hanamura. It was of little teenaged Jesse and nine-year-old Fareeha, the pair throwing up peace signs with goofy grins and an arm slung around each other. Jesse had almost forgotten how small she’d been when she was a kid. Now, they were practically the same height, and once Fareeha was legal to drink in the States, she’d probably drink him under the table, too. 

It was a perfectly normal, happy image of them posing in front of cherry blossoms, except their bodies took up less than half of the frame. It could have been nothing, a coincidence, a strange aesthetic choice, but… too many coincidences make a pattern, which was exactly what the collective images Reyes had gathered showed. 

“Some of these pictures… There’s room for more than one person in the photograph.” A few were practically empty, occupied solely by blank walls or unspectacular backgrounds. “Do you think-“

“That more than one person’s missing? Yeah, it’s crossed my mind. And whoever they are or were, we were close, close enough for me to wear their tags around my neck.” For some reason, whenever Jesse tried to focus on the name written on those tags, his mind went in different directions, skating off the surface like a pebble skimming the surface of a lake. Apparently, the same happened to Reyes, as well as to anyone else who tried to discern the tag’s previous owner. 

Trading dog tags in the military, though. Well, wasn’t that romantic?

Unable to keep the teasing lilt at bay despite himself, Jesse asked, “So, you think you might have been sweet on some girl in your unit?” What he didn’t expect was for the older man to shift awkwardly, not quite looking at him. Not quite avoiding him, either. It didn’t seem like both should be tenable, but Reyes was good at that sort of thing. 

Reyes coughed to clear his throat. “Whoever they were, I brought them home with me so I think sweet doesn’t quite cover it. And, also… I somehow doubt it’s a woman.” 

“Oh.” Jesse paused for a beat to process that, before continuing on as though he’d never stopped, though with an added happy glint in his eyes, “Okay, so we’re looking for one hell of a lucky guy,” the frown Reyes wore didn’t look very convincing, “and Fareeha’s mom,” Fareeha twisted in her seat to fix him with narrowed eyes, but Jesse had known for a while that little sisters didn’t drop from the sky, and he just couldn’t imagine anyone willingly giving her up, “who we think were last seen here, and who have apparently been missing for a decade. Is that about right?”

“Well,” shoulders rose and fell in a shrug, Reyes splayed his hands out, “I couldn’t exactly devote my attention to the search and raise you kids at the same time” 

“No, you tried to multitask and failed on both accounts,” Jesse snapped without thinking. He hadn’t meant for the words to draw blood, to open something raw and weeping, but a sharp intake of breath from Sombra told him everything he needed to know. It was cowardly not to look at Reyes, to see the damage he’d done, but something told him it’d be better if he and Gabe didn’t talk for a while. 

He made a beeline for the exit, grabbing a tanned leather jacket off the back seat of his chair as he went. “I’m gonna go cool off.”

Blinking hard, Reyes recomposed himself enough to holler after him, “Jesse, don’t you dare slam-“ 

The frame shuttered on impact. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Reyes said calmly, watching McCree hop down from the porch and stride with a quick pace down the stone path. “Japan’s a big country. Loads of places to bury a body.” Without offering any kind of acknowledgement, Sombra rushed outside with McCree’s wide-brimmed hat, still clad in her pajamas, whereas Fareeha headed for the porch. 

Standing alone in the kitchen and feeling a monster of a headache coming on, Reyes firmly pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes, and exhaled slowly through his mouth. Then he strode to the refrigerator, pulled out a beer, pried off the cap with his teeth, and carried it out to the porch. 

It was as good a place as any to start.

 

“I’m not going to apologize on his behalf,” Fareeha started the moment he’d opened the glass door to step outside, “and I can’t say I blame him, either.” She was staring over the dried lawn, her arms crossed over her chest while Sombra handed Jesse his hat over in the distance, close to the forest treeline and the path down to the village. There was an unhappy purse to her lips that told Reyes it would be best to tread carefully, though the warning didn’t quite keep a flare of blistering annoyance from licking against the sides of his throat. 

Since she wasn't using the yellow-blue stripped lawn chair, he sank down gratefully into it, still cupping his beer. He took a sip, savoring the taste. “All this time without a word and now I can’t get him to shut up. Would it have killed him to give me a phone call?”

He could feel the intensity of her stare on him, knew that if he looked up, he would see tension in her jaw, a glint of gold as the circlets on her raven hair caught the sun. “Would it have killed you? Would you have even picked up if you knew it was him? If I managed to find him, then I know you could’ve. I’m not a better tracker than you.” 

“I’ve had Sombra keeping tabs.” And if that sounded a little defensive to Gabe’s own ears, he certainly wasn’t going to mention it. 

“Well, good,” she muttered dryly, like he’d confessed to brushing his teeth everyday and expected a pat on the back for it. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear it.” 

They settled into an uneasy silence, taut as a bowstring and quicker to snap. Jesse and Sombra had parted ways, the latter heading back inside while the former navigated the rocky slope down to the marketplace. Fareeha leaned against the railing, her body language stating plainly that she wasn’t in the mood to be bothered, had already begun to shut him out.

He cleared his throat. “This actually reminds me of a long, boring story from back in my military days.” A minute twitch was all he got from the teen, but it was enough to guess at the exasperation plain on her face. “At the start of training, they gave us all a swimming prowess test, and one of my fellow recruits was a real piece of work. See, he lied to the instructors, told them he could swim fine when, in reality, the _pendejo_ couldn’t swim his way out of a bathtub.” 

There was a brief lull where Reyes struggled to get his thoughts together. It was always difficult to get a clear picture of his time spent with the special forces, since so much of it seemed to have been scrubbed clean and censored from his own mind, but that didn’t keep him from trying, over and over. 

He forced down another long pull of his beer. 

“Anyway, he jumps in the second he hears the whistle, doesn’t even hesitate,” Fareeha’s listening, has been the whole time, “and sinks like a stone.” Reyes chuckled, “Me and… this other guy jump in after him, but he swipes at the other guy, nearly catching him in the jaw, and I say, ‘Screw this,’ and swim to the surface, since I figure the instructors can fish lead-limbs up once he runs out of air, but the other guy?” Fareeha looked over her shoulder to see something like pride smooth out his wrinkles, shedding years from his weathered features. “He doesn’t give up. He goes straight back down and drags his dead weight to the ledge, and do you know what the guy said when our superior officer asked him why he lied?”

Even now, Reyes could still smell the sharp astringent odor of chlorine, itched from the chemicals clinging to his skin, “I can hold my breathe for a long time. I thought I’d be fine.”

Whatever Fareeha was looking at him with now, it wasn’t pity. She turned to the side, blew out a breath, “People do dumb things when they’re scared, Gabe.” 

“The damn fool never should have jumped in the first place.”

He let that sink in, wondering what she would make of it. Even more than Jesse, Fareeha had a talent for cutting through obfuscation. It was only natural, then, that she’d join law enforcement. Reyes supposed that, statistically, it made sense that at least one of their merry band would end up working on the right side of the law. 

“Knowing your mistakes, if that’s what we’re calling them…,” and she slumped against the railing, uncomfortable, “it’s not the same as learning from them.”

Surprised, Reyes barked a laugh.“You sound like her, sometimes.”

Fareeha arched a slender brow. “Who?”

But Reyes only shrugged, pressing the bottle to his lips with a grimace.

“Hell if I know.”

 

Jesse walked quickly, eager to put the house and its occupants behind him. 

He didn’t expect the door to fly open for a blast of neon purple and pink that sprinted down the stairs with his hat gripped beneath her brightly painted fingernails. Once she’d caught up, she stopped to catch her breath, wearing a cheeky grin as she met his incredulous gaze. “Sombra, what do you want?” He shook his head, frustrated. “You’re barefoot. Turn around and head back inside.” 

“What do I want?” She blinked, taken aback. “For a brainless _vaquero_ to come home safe, of course.” Wondering if she meant to protect him from a sunburn, Jesse wordlessly took the hat and plopped it on his head, feeling more like himself as he did so. Sombra looked pleased. “It’s a good luck charm, isn’t it?”

A hard, icy edge in the cowboy’s chest rounded out as he dredged up a grin. 

“Aw, you really do care.” Sombra rolled her eyes, keeping up appearances even when it was just the two of them. Jesse nudged her persistently with his elbow. “I missed you.” She huffed, fighting a smile. “Did you miss me?”

And there it was. 

“It looks to me like there’s a little more to miss, _el puerco_.” Flashing teeth, she poked playfully at his stomach. 

Jesse jumped back with a yelp. “Rude! It’s muscle and I take back what I said.”

Her laughter died down, belied by a strange unhappiness in her smile, and Jesse knew its cause. Knew how scary it was to watch family leave without ever knowing if they were coming back. But he was. “What do ya want me to bring you from the market, Sombra?” 

Relief seeped into her expression. “How about a new computer? My laptop’s running out of storage and-”

“Absolutely not. Try again.”

She snickered. “Then surprise me!” 

He turned to leave, already debating his options given his rather low funds at the moment, but stopped when it occurred to him how strange it was that Fareeha, a rookie who likely didn’t have full access to her station’s resources, had managed to track him down in the middle of nowhere. “Hey, Sombra,” she hummed to show she was listening, “you didn’t have anything to do with Fareeha finding me outside of Dallas, did you?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked positively delighted. No, actually,that was definitely her delighted smirk. “There may have been a helpful anonymous tip pointing her in the right direction. As well as another alerting the nearest department about a couple niños running insurance scams on local restaurant owners.” 

“You mean those sirens weren’t for me?” She was already making her way down the trail to return to the cottage with a jaunty gait, so Jesse raised his voice, calling after her with an appropriate level of indignation, “Sombra, I almost ripped my pants slipping out the bathroom window!”

“Yeah, yeah. Big baby.” He wasn’t sure if he’d been meant to hear that, but knowing her, probably. “Make sure you bring me back something nice!”

 

The village was decorated for a holiday, it seemed. Either that, or it was naturally festive in the summer season. 

Jesse walked slowly, careful to avoid the bustling shoppers and children speeding down the dirt road, his calloused fingers sometimes lingering on the wooden columns he passed. Kites danced in a clear sky, dragonflies and koi fish, round faces with pink ovals on their cheeks. And the kids squealed when a breeze swept them up, causing them to spin and twirl like paper airplanes in a gale. 

Petals crushed beneath their feet, releasing a sweet scent. 

Here, Jesse knew he was bearing witness to a peace that could never belong to him, but giggling children in brightly dyed kimonos and summer yukatas watched him curiously in his periphery, ducking their heads and scattering whenever he tried to get a fix on him, keeping to the shadows thrown off by his long legs as he strode through the shops, and that feeling of warmth and contentment welling up inside had to be close. 

He managed to greet a couple folk without embarrassing himself, though he shook his head politely whenever one of the townspeople ventured to engage him in conversation. 

_Konnichiwa!_

_Ah, gaijin da ne? Okashii yo. Doushite koko de ikitai kara?_

_…konnichiwa?_

Fareeha had instructed him to read a language survival guide on the flight over, but reading and flying didn’t mix so he made a judgment call and took a nap, instead. 

Eventually, he passed the worst of the crowd, finding himself nearing the outskirts of civilization, the border of wilderness. And on the edge was a cylindrical hut, split into two parts so that it bore more than a passing resemblance to a pale vanilla teapot. Smoke streamed in wisps from a spout at its top, a floral banister curved its side, and on its roof grew the greenest carpet of weeds and grass that Jesse had ever seen. 

Inquisitive by nature, Jesse strolled over to a door with rounded edges, pressed his ear to the wood, then rapped twice with his knuckles, “Pardon me, good sir or madam! I’m not sure you're aware, but there seems to be a lawn growing on your roof.”

Jesse scrambled backwards when the door opened so quickly the hinges shrieked. “Hello!” A burly German man with a lightning scar cutting through his milky right eye ducked to fit through the opening, which happened to make him look even more like a giant when he finally straightened to his full height. Staring up at the white-haired old man with biceps the size of his skull, Jesse couldn’t quite manage to choke down a nervous giggle. “Come in, come in. Welcome to my humble bakery.”

Feeling rather as though he were being picked up and swept away, the cowboy allowed the man to guide him into a warm, golden-lit bakery. The sweat scent of sugar saturated the shop, though it was prevented from becoming overpowering by hints of sourdough and yeast. Reinhardt, as Jesse would learn, showed it off proudly.

“Do you like it?” A pretzel made a particularly appetizing picture in the window. Jesse nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth without drooling. “I built this place myself some years ago.” Putting his fists on his hip, Reinhardt surveyed the bakery with the air of one marveling at their own creation, though his joy seemed to dim somewhat when added, “Can’t recall why, mind you, but…” His massive shoulders jumped in an easy shrug. “I must be too attached to leave.”

When he shifted to return to his place in the kitchen, however, the sun struck his chest where his billowy fleece shirt parted to reveal a pair of dog tags, which wouldn’t have been so strange, considering the man’s build, except Jesse couldn’t read the name. And it wasn’t that it was difficult to pronounce or too foreign to make heads or tails of. Rather, the letters slipped from his memory, faster the more he tried to grasp them. 

“Mind if I ask you where you found those?” Jesse indicated the tags. 

“These?” Holding them in his palm, Reinhardt frowned, thoughtful. “In the forest, perhaps?” He didn’t sound sure. In fact, Jesse was postive his mind was already trying to shirk away from a topic that refused to be approached directly, that shed any attempts like water on a duck’s back. 

If Jesse was right (and he usually was), this could be the biggest break Reyes had gotten in a decade. 

More than that, it was a lead. 

“Right,” Jesse offered absently, already making his way to the exit. He couldn’t stop smiling. “Hey, it’s kind of tough to explain, but I think you just really helped me out.” 

After a moment, Reinhardt’s confusion melted away. “Oh,” he said sunnily, “if you’re heading that way, mind bringing back some wild truffles? I’m afraid I’m running out and it would save me the trip.”

“No problemo, _mi compadre_. I’ll be back with those ingredients of yours in a jiff.” 

He was in such a hurry to get started that when he turned to toss a cheery wave over his shoulder, he didn’t think to pay attention to where he was going, and he wound up colliding with a young woman at full speed out the gate, knocking them both down. 

“I am so sorry, ma’am,” he apologized, immediately reaching to help her up. She shrugged him off with a scornful huff, rising to her feet on her own, and he got his first proper look at her. Now, McCree had seen his fair share of beautiful ladies in his life, but the slender woman staring down her sharp, angular nose at him had an otherworldliness about her that caused his breath to catch, his heart to squeeze uncomfortably in his chest. For an instant, he could have sworn he couldn’t move, that her icy gaze alone had frozen his limbs and the lungs in his chest, but then she blinked, and the sensation evaporated. 

“You should be more aware of your surroundings.” There wasn’t so much as a grain of dirt on her. “Such obliviousness is not conducive to the continued well-being of your person.” 

Oddly intimidated, Jesse swallowed. “Uh, right. Thanks?”

Her carefully shaped brows furrowed, her expression hardening further. It seemed he hadn’t responded the way she’d wanted, but Jesse was getting the impression she was a hard woman to please. Hoping to settle her ire, somewhat, he offered a handshake, “So, what brings you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She stared at the offered palm, her mouth curved at the corners with displeasure, but eventually accepted the gesture. “I’m here on business. Vishkar sent me to appraise the overall worse of the abandoned Shimada castle.” 

Jesse guessed she meant the recently abandoned yakuza hub further up the hill. She shook her head, throwing silky tresses over the shoulder of her light blue ao dai. “Not that one.” Craning her slender neck towards the trees crowding the grounds past the town, she explained, “The ruins of their ancestral home can be found in the forest.”

All at once, a chill wind blew, snapping one of the children’s kites so that their dragonfly sailed high on its gust, before suddenly being dashed onto the soil. Jesse tilted his head, listening to the cries of the kid bawling over the loss of their toy before asking, “Who were they?”

The young woman seemed confused. “Who?”

“The Shimada?”

A flash of something akin to pain distorted her features, and with her lips pursed, she told him, “I am sorry. I do not believe I’ve heard the name before. Excuse me.” 

Then she brushed past him, leaving him standing on a dirt road in a strange country with more questions than clues.

 

True to his word, Jesse did keep an eye out for truffles. 

The forest had an eclectic collection of trees, ranging anywhere from oak to bamboo, but one thing they had in common was a sense of age, and simmering animosity. If the forest were a person, Jesse would have said that they didn’t like him much. Then again, it didn’t seem to get many visitors outside of the local baker, so maybe the feeling wasn’t personal?

Stalks stretched to block the sunlight overhead. Jesse wandered in the dark. 

He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that if he were ever going to find it, he was in the right place. It didn’t do his mood any favors to realize that Reyes was already way ahead of him there, though. 

It wasn’t long before he found the ruins the woman from Vishkar had mentioned. Tiles covered in mold and mildew lay scattered throughout the soil. Toppled walls and rotted wood pillars, barren trees that might have once been beautiful – that was all that remained of the Shimada’s ancestral home, their castle. 

Perhaps it was better that some things had been forgotten by time. 

From what he remembered, the Shimada clan hadn’t exactly been the nicest group. 

He stepped into what appeared to a courtyard. 

The ground was covered in dried leaves that sometimes rustled and lifted where he walked, as though moving by their own will to avoid being crushed beneath his boots. In the center, coated in a healthy layer of green moss, was a large stone dragon. Its head of faded scales and weathered pupils rose over the cowboy, its cracked fangs about level with Jesse’s astonished, wide-eyed gaze, because lodged perfectly in its mouth was the biggest jewel Jesse had ever seen.

Immediately, Jesse cast about for something to pry it out with. A glint of metal caught his eye, and he brushed aside some leaves to reveal a rusted and cracked katana at the dragon’s base. After considering it, Jesse quickly decided that the weapon wasn’t in any condition to be used as leverage, and left it where it was. 

“Well,” wiping sweat from his brow, he stuck his hand into the dragon’s stone maw, going for the back of its throat where the azure jewel glittered prettily, “this seems like the makings of a really bad idea, but my little sister did ask for something nice…” 

Just when he thought he almost had it, the jaw slammed closed on his arm.

Not hard enough to hurt but enough to trap him. A frightened whimper trickled past his lips. Heart in his mouth, he rested his head against the dragon's snout.

“That was way too close.”

“Pull the lever, genius,” scolded an impatient sounding voice from behind. Dreading what he would see, Jesse cracked open one eye to peek over his shoulder.

“Well?” demanded the green-edged sword, now standing with its tip embedded in the dirt. 

And every perched bird took flight, filling the sky as the forest trembled with the megaton force of an ear-splitting falsetto scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've waited far too long to introduce my angry talking sword child


	47. the sorrow of stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the festival and the Shimada brothers are thrilled to get out of the castle long enough to finally enjoy themselves.

Once it was just the two of them, Hanzo quickly shut his bedroom door, checked that it was closed, then spun and leapt onto his bed the way any other boy of three-going-on-four might. Smiling at the excitement plain on his face as he slipped beneath the sheets for a story, Azumi did her best to settle comfortably on the child-sized mattress with the additional weight settled around her waist making her movements unwieldy and awkward. 

All these nights of practice and the act still felt to her like a new and interesting challenge. 

“Could we go to the festival, _hahaue_?” 

She looked up to find her son staring her with hope shining brightly in his eyes, as his round features formed the kind of expression that made her want to wrap him up and give him the world, and she glanced at the rain droplets streaking his window, before gently cupping his cheek. “Maybe next year, my sweet one. Perhaps, by then, we’ll be able to bring your baby brother along with us.”

And her child pouted, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl that only served to make her laugh. “What is he doing inside you, anyway?” Hanzo said accusingly, as though it were somehow the baby’s fault that the sky had chosen that day to release its burden onto the soil. “And why is he taking so long?” 

“It’s because he’s still growing.” Azumi placed her palms over her womb, imagining the second heartbeat beneath her fingertips, growing stronger every day. “Soon, he will be ready to meet you, but you will need to be patient with him.” She watched with satisfaction as her soon-to-be eldest’s bright eyes grew with awe, and determinedly maintained a straight face, embuing as much solemnity into her tone as she could, “Babies are small and fragile creatures, and the world is such a big place.” Then she allowed the put-upon severity of her words to soften, unable to resist a teasing lilt as she gave Hanzo a nudge, “So, what do you say, o-nii-san? Do you think you can look after him for me?” 

Hanzo nodded eagerly, a knight accepting the terms to a quest, “I’ll watch out for him… so can we all go to the summer festival when he’s ready to come out?”

Since they were alone, Azumi allowed herself an amused snort before reaching over to ruffle her eldest’s raven hair into a feathered mess, and he beamed, knowing well that his favorite part of the night had come at last.

It was time for a bedtime story.

 

_Legend tells of a beautiful young weaver who spun starlight into cloths of such beauty and majesty that her father, the Sky King, was pleased by her works, and bid her remain by the heavenly river to create even more magnificent fabrics. And the weaver, wishing only to please her father, toiled without complaint, though the burden of her efforts and the pressure to surpass her own works eventually took its toll. Loneliness encased her delicate pale fingers in lead, slowed her movements, and weighed her heart._

_Though her father loved her dearly, maintaining the Universe often demanded the majority of his attention, and so he did not see how her sadness grew overtime, how her glittering silver tresses grew dull, her pallor sickly, until there was little he could do._

_In fear for her life and happiness, he arranged for a cowherder who lived on the other side of the river to keep her company. What he did not expect, however, was for the pair to fall in love._

_Soon, the weaver’s heart, which had once belonged solely to the Sky King, began to fill with thoughts of the young Hikoboshi, and she neglected her cloths in favor of spending more time indulging their newfound bliss, and as the cowherder was equally smitten, cows soon roamed through the cosmos unchecked._

_Incensed by their perceived disrespect, the Sky King forced the lovers to part, and refused to let them meet. Orihime was inconsolable. She loved her husband more than her own life, and couldn't bear to return to her former loneliness. When she told her father of this, his resolve wavered, and he agreed to allow for a single meeting on the seventh day of the seventh month._

_And ever since that day, the lovers can always see their other half waiting faithfully across the river, yet they cannot always meet, for when it rains, the river runs too high to cross, and they must wait another year to try again._

 

“It’s a dumb story.”

Though it was growing dark in Hanamura, the sun having sunk below the horizon several hours before, the festival for Princess Orihime and Hikoboshi-sama was still in full swing. Children ran up and down the paved road in summer yukata, laughing as they ducked to avoid the colorful streams of paper hanging overhead, strung across the road and buildings with twine and fishing line. 

Frowning, Hanzo glanced down at Genji, who sullenly took a bite of his fish-shaped pastry while at the same time clutching his older brother’s sleeve. “What is?” He had a feeling he already knew the answer. 

Scuffing his sandals in the dirt, Genji scowled at the ground. “Orihime-sama works so hard and she still only gets to see the man she loves once a year, and sometimes not even that. How is that fair?”

“There are simply times when no amount of hard work we do is enough.” A tad desperate, Hanzo willed him to understand. “Her father does not control the rain, Genji.”

“He doesn’t have to,”Genji insisted, that burgeoning stubborn streak and temper of his making itself known once more. “He just has to let her see Hikoboshi-sama whenever she wants.”

Hanzo shook his head with a sigh beyond his years, deciding it was best to allow the conversation to drop for the moment. “You always make things sound so simple,” he muttered ruefully, ignoring his little brother’s rapid-fire challenge - “Well, isn’t it?” -in favor of watching a group of kids his age scooping goldfish out of an inflatable pool. Soft light cast by the paper lanterns overhead illuminated the happy flush in their cheeks, the concentration, and their shared joy when one of them triumphantly lifted their prize for the bagging. 

His thoughts drifted, until he rallied himself in time to spot Genji staring longingly at a wall of masks. They weren’t of high quality, not porcelain nor any other fine material, but constructed from cheap plastic. Still, they were exquisite replicas bearing the likenesses of youkai and geisha. Further to the right, Hanzo noticed rows of masks dedicated to modern culture, including several sentai masks. Though a knowing smile may have given him away, Hanzo tried for casual when he asked, “Genji?” Distracted by a green bug-like mask with scarlet eyes, Genji made a noise of vague acknowledgement. Still playing dumb, Hanzo struggled not to laugh. “Do you want to get a mask?”

And with a quiet gasp, his little brother lit up like a firework, speeding off to pester the vendor while Hanzo followed at a more sedate pace, taking advantage of the time to dig a handful of yen out of his satchel. 

Predictably, Genji did want the super sentai mask, and struck a heroic pose when the vendor gladly handed it to him. On the other hand, Hanzo found himself equally attracted to the Oni. It was a garish red, with teeth thick like tusks, and a black mane framing its features. Ignoring the face Genji pulled when Hanzo pointed it out, he passed coins over to the vendor, and placed the monster’s visage over his own as they strolled further down the road. 

“How do I look?” Behind his mask, Hanzo grinned. “A proper villain for a hero, wouldn’t you say?”

Puffing his cheeks in a pout, Genji folded his arms over his chest, “Well, sure, except you’re my sidekick!”

Hearing that, Hanzo nearly stumbled, dirtying the hem of his yukata in the process,“I am not your…” Aware of his little brother’s gaze, he stopped to consider. It didn’t matter when it was only pretend, did it? 

He lifted his mask with a grudging, “Okay, fine. Sidekick it is.”

And Genji crowed, triumphant, before sprinting ahead, spewing sound effects as he went. Hanzo didn’t think much of it until they abruptly cut off. Breaking into a run, he navigated the crowd, searching for a child in a dark green yukata with a kamen rider mask, and called out his name, only to be brought short when he discovered his little brother kneeling in front of a cardboard box on the side of the road, making cooing noises at the litter of kittens falling over themselves in their efforts to leap on his fingertips.

When Hanzo placed a hand on his shoulder, Genji peered up at him with an open, pleading expression, and a shimmering gaze.

Staring off in the direction of home, Hanzo stood, feeling the weight of expectation and responsibility settle once more upon his shoulders. “I will speak to father.”

 

“Father, please! He is lonely.” 

Sojiro didn’t even look up from his desk. “Then play with him, Hanzo.” 

Hanzo resisted the urge to pace, to shout, to stomp his feet and demand that their father pay attention to him, but while such behave might have been acceptable coming from Genji, perhaps even rewarding him an indulgent smile, such leniency could not be afforded to the heir, and so the boy forcefully injected calm and respect into his tone. If he tried to approach this as though it were the opening to a negotiation, then maybe his father would listen. “I cannot keep him company for all hours of the day,” he pointed out reasonably. “I have lessons more often than not, study and training. He spends much of his time alone. Also,” he added hastily when Sojiro appeared unmoved, “having pets would teach-” 

He snapped his mouth shut when Sojiro raised a hand to speak. “If you cannot handle your responsibilities,” he said coldly, “and care for your brother, then how can you expect to handle the responsibilities of leading the clan?”

Normally, Hanzo would have backed down at this point, but a stubbornness possessed him, and he insisted,“Genji needs friends, Father. And if not that, then something to keep him company when I cannot.” 

He wanted – needed to believe that Genji was entitled to happiness. That his own efforts and toil meant something. To hide the trembling in his hands, he laid them flat at his sides, forcing himself not to look at the cardboard box of sleeping kittens tucked in the corner. 

_I know you love him more than me._

_Now prove it._

After what felt like a century of waiting, Sojiro stood to acknowledge him, “Alright.” And Hanzo raised his head, disbelief slowly bleeding into relief. But Sojiro wasn’t done. “Since you’ve proven yourself inadequate when it comes to ensuring your brother’s happiness, I’ll allow one to stay. However, the disposal of the rest will be your responsibility. And Saito will see that you do.” 

The young head of the security team stepped out of the shadows, though to Hanzo, it looked as though they had fled, and gathered up the box of kittens, drawing from its contents a drowsy mewing. He lifted one of the cats by the scruff of its neck to hand to Sojiro, before leaving the room with the expectation that Hanzo would follow.

At first, Hanzo didn’t understand the dread pooling in his belly, why sweat began to slip from his pores, chilling his skin. By the time he’d shoved through persistent denial to the horrible truth, he was already running to cut Saito off at the shrine. 

_no no no_

“NO!” He skidded to a halt at the balcony, where Saito held a softly mewing striped kitten over the drop. Once Saito saw he’d arrived, he released the cat, but Hanzo vaulted over the railing to hook his fingers into the kitten’s pelt, nearly throwing himself to his death in the process. It left him in a precarious position, with one hand desperately gripping the bar that seemed to slide beneath his palm, the other clinging to the fur of a squirming cat. 

Saito grabbed his wrist, shouting, “Let go of the cat! _Sono neko hanasenasai!_ ” 

It was the first time Hanzo had ever seen the man raise his voice, yet he found he couldn’t appreciate the novelty. Instead, he was furious. “I will not!”

As soon as the head of the guard pulled him over the railing, Hanzo dropped the kitten, tore free from the man’s grip, and unsheathed a slender blade from his sleeve. He positioned himself in front of the box of kittens, entering a wide defensive stance with his teeth bared in a snarl and an otherworldly light in his eyes. 

Unbeknownst to him, a pair of translucent dragons flickered over his body, circling protectively around the boy. 

For a moment, Saito watched the birth of the future kumicho in silent awe. Then he stepped quickly into the boy’s guard to land a blow on the back of his neck that sent the child sprawling to the floorboards, unconscious. 

Immediately, the kitten from before, whom Saito had believed had wandered off after its release, jumped on the boy’s back to hiss at him, even swiping at his hand when he attempted to turn the boy over. 

Frowning, Saito rose to stare disdainfully down at the unexpected nuisance. He reached for it, “The Shimada have no need for sentimentality,” but was forced to withdraw quickly when the high-pitched yowling was joined and strengthened by a snarl.

The azure dragons appeared to crouch over its form, their long serpentine bodies curling protectively over the boy and the box of kittens he’d attempted to defend. They roared in challenge, and wary of making himself an enemy of the guardian spirits of the Shimada, Saito was made to improvise.

 

Hanzo jolted awake to discover he was lying on his bed. There were no kittens in his room, no evidence of the events that had occurred. It seemed he’d failed. For all his privilege and supposed power, he couldn’t even save a couple of innocent cats. 

Truly, he was a worthy heir.

He holed himself in his room, refusing to leave even after the servants announced that it was time for breakfast. He didn’t think he could bear to see his father without losing himself, so he remained where he was, his head buried in his knees, hidden by a dense curtain of black hair. 

Sometime later, Genji crept into his room with his brand new pet, a spotted kitten. And Hanzo wrapped his arms tightly around himself, staring lifelessly at the ground as his little brother played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, no kittens were harmed in the making of this. What Saito did was release the cats, thus allowing Hanzo to think he'd killed them, and informed the elders that Hanzo's dragons had awakened for the first time, which led to Hanzo's training being kicked up a notch or ten.
> 
> Hanzo is about thirteen in this, which puts Genji at around nine, and this was, in effect, the final nail in the coffin of Hanzo's childhood, which was never that great to begin with, to be honest. It's also the last of the one-shots which will deal solely with their past. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it!


	48. The Road To Somewhere - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 45) Continuation of the Beauty and the Beast au (2/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think I'd have gotten the hang of chapter-counting by now and not constantly need to change it because I underestimate my word count, but then we'd both be wrong. 
> 
> On that note, don't worry too much about the 60 chapter cap. It's really just an estimate. Right now, 65's looking more likely but I don't want to mess with it until I get closer to that point.

“Would you-” 

The sword reeled back in a very human-like fashion as Jesse continued to point and yell at the top of his lungs.

“Would you relax, already?” It snapped, sounding annoyed even as it began to hop towards the statute’s hind legs. Distantly, Jesse managed to note that the voice coming from the blade had a noticeable Japanese accent. “I’m trying to get you out of there.” And it propped itself against a wooden lever attached to the stone dragon’s thigh. “Kick this and the mouth will spring upon. Oh,” it added with a low note of warning, “and be careful not to touch the-“ The instant Jesse shifted his arm within the dragon’s jaw to kick at the level with his boot, the jewel brushed against his fingertips.

It started to pulse. The blade spun on its tip, shifting its hilt as though to stare, as a wintry gale burst forth from the stone dragon’s maw, chilling Jesse until frost spread over his cheeks and lashes. Finally, with a thrust of his boot, he managed to hit the wooden level and the mouth sprung open, freeing him. He stumbled backwards into a pile of snow, pawing frantically at his eyes to melt the ice grown over his lids. 

At last, he pried them up, but instead of finding himself in the ruins of a courtyard, discovered that he was sitting outside a magnificently preserved shrine. The steps leading into it were covered in snow that couldn’t have had time to fall, and crimson pillars led the way into an open two-story pagoda. 

Shaking the snow off his chaps, Jesse rose out of the snow, slack-jawed with awe. 

“This ain’t possible.”

The sword pivoted on its tip. “Tell me about it.”

McCree glanced down at the blade and then at the shrine, and a large castle looming in the not-so-far distance. There were paper lanterns hanging from the beams in the ceilings, each of them lit by an indeterminable light source that appeared to be unaffected by the weather, and giving off an ominous red aura. The gnarled trunks of barren trees bordered the courtyard’s walls, and with the exception of Jesse’s own harsh breathing, there was an absence of ambient nose that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to run for the hills. 

Frowning with confusion, Jesse lifted his boots to hear the crunch under his feet when he set them back down. He glanced at the blade, half-expecting it to comment. “I thought I came here looking for mushrooms but I’m starting to think maybe I already found them?”

Interestingly, a tinny chuckle emanated from the sword, causing vibrations to run along its shaft, and then it turned to hop in the direction of the highest structure, with its many stories and slanted rooftops curled at the corners towards the sky. It seemed like the likeliest place to find more people, but Jesse wasn’t feeling too optimistic about his chances. 

“Come on, then,” the sword called back once it realized Jesse hadn’t moved an inch, twisting impatiently, “let’s get you inside before the cold turns you into an obnoxious lawn ornament.” 

It had stopped under a gateway that opened into another courtyard, this one with with a gazebo built in the dead center and traditional stone lanterns that, from Jesse’s perspective, looked like little houses with four legs. 

He jogged to catch up to the waiting katana, grumbling irritably under his breath, “Didn’t think I’d come all this way to be sassed by an overgrown toothpick.” Once he’d caught up to it, it resumed its former pace, and Jesse chanced a conversation.

"So, you can talk.” He’d admit, it wasn’t his best opening.

The sword seemed to agree, as its tone when it replied was positively sardonic. “My, you are an astute one.”

Jesse shot a quick glare at the weapon. “ _How_ can you talk?”

"Magic.” A jarring clacking noise startled the cowboy when the blade’s edge landed squarely on a concealed marble path, but the animate inanimate object appeared unruffled. Not that McCree had any real way of knowing.

He exhaled through his teeth at the non-answer, already fed up with this endless parade of surprises when he had plenty problems of his own clamoring for his attention. “I’m starting to think I ought to be heading home.” With a cheery jingle of his spurs, he turned on his heel at the next courtyard entrance, only to pause, uncertainty weighing heavily in his mind at the untouched expanse beyond. There should have been footprints left by his boots, divets in the snow left by the blade. But there was nothing.

It wasn’t even snowing.

“Yeah?” The blade swung around, it’s tone acidic. “Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you stuck your hand someplace where it didn’t belong and touched something that wasn’t meant to be touched, _aho_.”

McCree tried to remember if there had been any exits where he’d started. Though he’d undeniably been distracted at the time, he liked to think he’d at least have the presence of mind to notice that much, but all that came to him was a recollection of being surrounded by walls with a single archway that led to the next section of the seemingly endless maze he’d somehow gotten himself trapped in.

After ultimately deciding that having a sarcastic talking sword for a guide was better than no guide at all, he frowned down at the weapon, raising an eyebrow as he did, “Care to run that one by me again?”

“No.”

It took off at a faster pace, leaving Jesse huffing and cursing as he jogged to keep up.

 

It was strangely amusing to watch the blade maneuver its way up to the buried steps of what Jesse had come to realize was once the ruined Shimada castle, now restored to its former glory. It rocked its slender form, causing it to pitch forward onto its hilt, balanced uneasily for a moment, then repeated the action to roll onto the second.

“I ain’t ever seen anybody fall upwards before,” McCree commented conversationally, stepping on the stairs to follow. “It’s admittedly impressive, though I wouldn’t be adverse to, uh, carrying you if that’s-”

A feral snarl emanated from the sword. McCree glanced down at it, and the glint of its polished edge, then shrugged. “Fine. ‘s not like I don’t got time.” It’d be hours before anyone started questioning his whereabouts, and even longer before they started to worry. After leaving in a tiff like he had, it wouldn’t cross their minds for a while that he wasn’t just blowing off steam.

Jury was still out on whether that was a good thing or not, but he was nonetheless grateful for the chance to spare them any anxiety on his behalf.

Feeling contrary, he lengthened his stride to cover more ground, thus making it to the top in one or two paces, and though the cold had well and sunk into his bones, made a show of grinning while the animated sword, still working its way up, projected a wall of frustration and fury.

Jesse’s grin widened. “Sure you don’t need any help, friend?”

Quickening its fall and flip motion until finally making it to level ground, the blade continuing towards the entrance, ignoring McCree with a pointedness that briefly made him feel sheepish for antagonizing the only companion he had in this strange place.

After hesitating a moment, Jesse trailed after it, shivering with his arms wrapped around himself, rubbing furiously to get the blood flowing. Even so, he couldn’t help admiring the smooth and unblemished threshold. Thick and starkly white, it brought to mind the bones of an animal carcass in the desert, bleached to an unnatural glow by the unforgiving rays of the sun.

“Hurry up!” The sword barked. It rapped its hilt against the high wooden doors, each of them expertly craved with detailed images of long, serpentine dragons, before vanishing within when they opened a crack, allowing the blade to slip easily through the opening.

“Hey!” McCree hurried after it, bursting through the entrance in a flurry of drenched boots and frozen chaps. He came to a stop immediately, halted by a blast of air that melted any lingering ice within seconds, leaving him standing in a puddle, still wet but no longer chilled.

Curious, he tried to get a grasp of his new surroundings, if only so that if things went south, as they had a tendency to do whenever he was involved, he’d know of any handy escape routes.

To his right, he noticed what looked to be a standard living room bathing in the cheery illumination of an intimidatingly large fireplace. There were scarlet armchairs positioned around it in a semi-circle, and a suit of armor standing beside it, a reddish tint like a living stain on the overlapping plates closest to the flames.

It didn’t sport the standard Western European build, though. Tall and thin like a one-size fits all sock. It was broader in the chest, custom-molded to accommodate a specific set of thighs and biceps. Interestingly, it didn’t even appear to be that old. There weren’t any scratches or dents in the plates, no sign of wear in the tan leather shaping its slender middle.

"Now, what would a lovely suit of Crusader’s armor such as yourself be doing in a place like this?” He glanced at the surrounding scrolls and traditional Asian imagery of mythological creatures and battles painted on the walls. “Can’t say you’re doing wonders for the aesthetic.” On impulse, he flicked its chest plate. A deep thrum echoed within the empty suit of armor while at the same time the fireplace billowed, spraying the cowboy with sparks that stung like bug bites where they hit.

“Do ya mind,” the fireplace boomed with an unmistakable Swedish accent, “not touching my daughter like that?” Its flames extended out to coalesce into a flickering impression of a braided beard, while a pair of logs within shifted to roughly where eyebrows might have been located on a human face, and furrowed.

“It’s fine, Pappa.” The Crusader armor sighed, its voice seeming to echo within its dandelion yellow torso section before exiting from the top. The armor – she? – shifted to address Jesse, before realizing the cowboy had back up several feet to fall clumsily into an armchair. Staring wide-eyed at the fiery face and its daughter, he scrambled to get his long, suddenly uncooperative limbs on top of it.

“Would you get off of that?” The fireplace coughed billowing clouds of smoke that stretched across the room. “Never took ya for the skittish type, boy.”

“Genji brought you in here, right?” The headless suit of armor lifted large leather gloves in a plaintive gesture, “It’s not like we’re the first you’ve seen.” It leaned conspiratorially down towards the flames, one glove cupping air where a mouth might have been. “Come to think of it, I don’t think Jesse ever really liked Reinhardt’s ghost stories. “ Hearing that, Jesse automatically bristled, though he didn’t quite know why. Instead of retorting, he decided to jump on what he hoped could shed some light on this fiasco, “Reinhardt? You mean the baker from the village? How do you know him?”

The logs forming the furnace’s eyebrows bunched, giving it a thoughtful appearance. When it finally spoke, it was in a lower, softer tone than before, “We’ve been friends for longer than you’ve been alive, boy.”

After tugging down the brim of his hat, Jesse lowered his legs to the ground and took a step closer. “Take it things haven’t always been like this, then?”

“Well, I’ll be.” The fire with the braided beard chuckled, spitting embers, some of which pinged harmlessly off the armor. “Reyes always used to say you were a bright _pojke_.”

“Reyes?” Was it his imagination or did the old antique clock on the mantle just twitch? He bent forward to scrutinize it for a moment, taking note of the frozen minute and hour hands, the intricate design. Then he looked for dust on its polished parts, scuff marks on the mantle that would suggest movement. Satisfied, he leaned back, stroking the stubble on his chin with a calloused hand. “Ya’ll seem mighty familiar with me,” he admitted, “but I’m starting to get the feeling my recollection’s been a mite unreliable lately. Mind helpin’ me clear that up?”

Shadows of furniture and the coat rack in the corner lengthened as the flames in the fireplace dimmed. The armor slumped dejectedly. “You really don’t know us,” she whispered.

Jesse opened his mouth, closed it, then glanced askance. “I’m sorry, darling.”

She shook herself, creating a massive racket - “It can’t be helped, right?” – and extended a gauntlet. “My name is Brigitte.”

“Torbjorn,” the fireplace grumbled. Jesse nodded towards the flames before taking her hand and giving it a friendly shake. For an empty suit of armor, he was impressed by how strong her grip was.

Winking, he said, “Remind me never to challenge you to an arm wrestling contest.” The resulting snicker it earned him was a tad strained.

“Making friends, I see.” In the foyer, the katana from before – McCree hastily reminded himself that Brigitte had referred to the blade as Genji – balanced effortlessly on its tip, which should have been dulled and chipped, but must have been maintained by the same supernatural force that allowed it to move and speak. A flash of electric green traveled the length of its grooved shaft like a jagged bolt of lightning. Jesse swallowed. “Now that you’ve had a chance to get dry, I will take you to the kumicho of the Shimada clan.” It led him up a squared-shaped staircase that framed the main room, as it clung to the walls starting from the bottom and leading all to what was presumably the attic on the uppermost floor. Throughout their walk, Jesse took notice of the scrolls and paintings, most of which seemed to portray severe looking men and women, each of them in traditional dress, some of them wielding blades and naginatas.

Jesse touched a silver frame, frowning at the dust that came away on his fingertips. “Clan, huh? Think I heard something about that.” But the halls were empty, the wooden floorboards coated in a thick layer of dust that couldn’t have been disturbed in years. “Where are the rest of you?”

“Loyalty has its limits.” The sword turned slightly, once again managing to catch what little light filtered in from the shuttered windows on its edge. “Those who could flee, did. Those who could not-” and it bounded forward, an impossible feat among many, “-they were forced to remain in this place, existing as little more than ghosts, until either the curse is lifted or the kumicho dies.”

Startled by the vehemence in its words, Jesse stopped in his tracks, only to realize he’d reached the highest floor, and was standing outside a pair of mahogany doors, each of them carved with a snarling dragon. From far away, it appeared that they were intertwined, but on closer inspection, it became clear that one dragon had pounced on the other, its great claws forcing the other towards the earth.

“The Shimada sure did like their dragons,” he commented offhandedly, to which the blade replied with the first note of humor Jesse had heard since he’d arrived, “You have no idea.”

So, what was he supposed to do next?

Knock?

Wait for the kumicho to come out and greet him?

Suddenly feeling nervous, the cowboy clenched and unclenched his fists, before asking hopefully, “Did ya at least let him know I’m here?” Instead of answering, the blade rapped its hilt against the wood. There was a beat before something inside moved, heavy and larger than a man, and the door swung inwards.

Jesse found himself staring into the slitted pupils of a creature out of myths. It body was long and serpentine, with a pale segmented belly and azure scales trailing from its head to the end of the tail it’d wrapped around the door’s golden handle. Whiskers sprouted from its snout, their twitching betraying the creature’s surprise, though it swiftly and visibly relaxed its muscles, and bowed its great head, staring resignedly at the floor when it inquired, “Have you come to kill me?”

“Stop being so dramatic, _anija_ ,” Genji hopped fearlessly into the wrecked master bedroom, effortlessly navigating past shattered chairs and animal carcasses strewn across the floor.

The dragon’s gaze flicked uneasily towards the weapon, before glancing back up at McCree, a single ebony brow raised. “Perhaps you could use a different weapon? Any weapon besides?”

His brain having gone perfectly and utterly blank, Jesse turned desperately to the sword for some kind of direction. “Hey, stab him with a stick,” came the bored response. “I honestly don’t care.”

The flippancy of the statement sparked enough hot anger in the pit of Jesse’s stomach that it kickstarted his brain and mouth in gear, “First, let’s get one thing straight-“ and he lifted a single finger to show he was ticking points off as he went, “-I’m not stabbing anyone.” He gestured towards a shattered window hiding behind ripped and torn curtains, “I just want to get out of here. Second,” lowering his voice an octave, McCree said directly to the blade, “ I know you’re just tryin’ to use me to do your dirty work.”

When Genji twisted to face him with the flat of his blade, McCree saw the strain in his own pinched expression in the reflection on his surface. What he heard, however, was a seething fury that made his hackles raise, “Sure you want to talk to a sword like that?”

Before Jesse could bite out a response, the dragon heaved a heavy sigh, “If you’re not here to kill me, then could the both of you leave?”

“Busy, Hanzo?” Genji snarled. Hanzo didn’t rise to take the bait. Instead, the dragon seemed to retreat inwards, hunching its shoulders and wrapping its immense tail around its body, as though folding in on itself. It stared at the wall, ignoring them. “Fine,” the blade spat at the dragon’s scaled back. “Have it your way, then.” And without prompting, the dragon opened the door to allow him to leave.

Despite staring after him, Jesse chose to stay. “You two wouldn’t be related by any chance, would ya?” To his surprise, the innocent query earned him a reaction, as the dragon lifted its head to regard him with disconcertedly human disbelief in its gaze. Jesse waved it off with a casual shrug. “Call it a lucky guess.”

The dragon huffed. “Forgive my brother for his rudeness. These years have been hard on all the inhabitants of this castle, but for him more than most. His is a temperament ill-fitted for containment.” Hanzo’s mane hung limply on his dull grey-blue scales in clumps. There were large, barren patches that appeared to have been scratched off by overgrown talons, and deep gouges in the floor that could be attributed to pacing.

McCree filed that information away as he pulled a cigarillo from his vest pocket. “So, what did ya’ll do to end up cursed like this?” Damn. He didn’t have any matches.

The dragon made an impatient nose, flicked a whisker towards its nostrils, and when McCree bent to hold the cigarillo directly in front of his snout, exhaled a wave of hot breath that curled and blackened its edge. Grinning widely, Jesse nodded his thanks before placing the unlit end in his mouth.

“It’s not what they did.” Hanzo's tail thumped with agitation, ears pressed firmly against his skull. “A woman came to this castle in the middle of a winter storm, begging for shelter. She was not of these parts, and beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I felt it was only a matter of time before she fell into my brother’s bed.” McCree took that in, thinking about the words, and the defeat with which they were uttered.

Even if he said that was a really shitty thing to think about his brother, he didn’t think that was the kind of thing to tell someone you’d known for five minutes, especially not if they had claws that could open up your stomach, but more than that… Jesse had a feeling there really wasn’t any kind of condemnation he could bestow that hadn’t already been rested upon the dragon’s head, piercing his scales and tainting his blood like a poisoned crown.

He followed Hanzo’s line of sight to a portrait hanging on the wall of a stern-faced man in an ornate hakama, and his sons. The youngest bore a more genial look, with softer features with a feathery spiked hairstyle, while the oldest... there was nothing left of his face, just a blank white canvas, torned and ripped to pieces.

“He was a handsome fella,” McCree heard himself say of the younger son, if only to break the silence.

“Yes.” The dragon sounded pained. “He was.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, the dragon continued with a stuttered breath, “With the support of my advisors, I cast her out into the cold, heedless of her warnings. Were she a mortal woman, she may well have died that night. But she was no such thing. By casting her out, I angered a being of great power, and thus brought the entire clan to ruin.”

“Sounds like you regret it.”

Startled, Hanzo twisted to stare at him, his golden eyes wide and liquid. “Everyone makes mistakes, some worse than others. I’ve made more than a few myself. But if I can look back and say I’d make a different choice, then that means I learned something, don’t it? What you did was downright rotten,” some of the vitality visibly bled from the dragon, and he continued hastily, “but it sounds to me like you’re a different man now. Maybe even a better one.”

“I am not a man at all,” Hanzo scoffed.

McCree waved a hand impatiently, “You know what I mean.”

He settled down on the floor, though the dust and debris made him wrinkle his nose. It was unsettling, being surrounded by bones. Slowly, he removed his boots, feeling the dragon’s eyes on him as he did. “Why haven’t ya’ll ever left?”

“Besides our appearance,” the dragon replied in a dry tone, immediately bringing a certain irritable katana to mind, “this castle exists in a closed space. We, quite literally, cannot go beyond the forest.” He regarded McCree with renewed puzzlement. “How could you possibly manage to wander into such a place?”

“Genji said I touched something I shouldn’t have. It was… this exquisite blue jewel. Same color as your scales, I think. My sister asked me for something nice-”

“And so you thought you would steal from the ruins of an abandoned castle?”

McCree took offense to that. “Well, I never said _I_ was nice.”

A low rumble emanated from the dragon’s chest. “I suppose you did not,” Hanzo conceded with audible amusement, making Jesse feel oddly pleased with himself.

Minutes passed in silence as Jesse worked his way through another cigarillo, until eventually the entrance creaked open, and the collar of Brigitte’s armor peeked in.

Hanzo nodded to acknowledge her, gesturing with his head. “Lindholm-san will take you to your quarters until we discover a way to help you leave.”

“Thanks.” McCree rose to his feet, feeling his spine pop back into place after sitting for so long. Then he got a look at the thick wool blankets in Brigitte’s arms, and blinked in confusion. “Um…”

In a fluid motion, she strut into the room and tossed them over the dragon’s back, who grumbled, “This is highly unnecessary, Lindholm-san. I am unworthy of-”

“-such kindness. I know, I know.” Though it was hard to tell with the reverberation, it sounded as though she’d be smiling if she could. Maybe not a big one, or even very happy, but a smile, nonetheless. “I keep telling you to call me Brigitte. We’re friends, aren't we?” Stunned, the dragon could do little except slowly incline his head.

Once she’d herded McCree out to take him to the guest quarters and the doors were well and firmly shut, Hanzo twisted the length of his serpentine body to snarl at a shimmer of crystalline light in the corner of the room, as it became more and more defined and solid, until it condensed into the form of a young woman with glistening locks cascading down the back of an Ao Dai that shifted as though the fabric were woven from clouds and sky.

“Shimada Hanzo.” Though the cold and years of inactivity made him sluggish, the dragon’s mane bristled as he forced his legs beneath him. With his head brushing the ceiling, he bent at the neck to bare dripping fangs mere inches from her impassive features. “It has been some time since last we met.” Taking in the scattered deer carcasses, she added without inflection, “I see your situation has not improved.”

And the walls trembled with a thunderous growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your continued support! 
> 
> Also, I realize this was my perfect opportunity to have Wolf!Hanzo, but I kind of need him to be able to fly at one point... ~~plus I love dragons~~


End file.
